


A Sort Of Fairytale

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Hamburg, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Beatles during their first trip to Hamburg, September 1960.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Warning - this is left unfinished; hopefully one day I will actually get time to complete it... Five parts exist so far.

When Paul gets back to their shitty little excuse for a room, Pete is crooning as though he thinks he's Dean Martin. He's nabbed one of their guitars (crafty bastard) and is strumming away, although the strings have never been his thing; fingers too short. John once described him as 'too much of a soft queer' for a guitar and hearing him now, Paul has to agree. 

"Christ, what's that noise?" He asks, trying in some diplomatic way to display his utter contempt. Stu (who is on the bunk below Pete) gives Paul a look that says, 'Break the bloody thing over his head, will you?' And Paul finds himself smiling, possibly for the first time all day. He's exhausted - they're all exhausted, can't remember the last time they slept for more than two hours at a time or laid their head somewhere a pillow had once called it's home. Paul can feel all of his limbs weighing him down, more aware of the gritty scrape of his eyeballs in their sockets than he ever has been, more aware of his own pounding head. 

"Seriously, Pete," he says, after a moment. "Give it a rest, yeah?" 

Pete lets the chord he's playing trail off and - blissfully - for a moment there is peace. 

Apart from the muted rumble of German voices playing themselves out on film next door, there is utter silence. Paul listens to the soft, distant way the voices sound muffled by the wall, carving off the harsh vowels of the accent, almost making it sound English. If he shuts his eyes for a just a second, he can pretend he's back home, falling asleep infront of the fire in the front room whilst his dad has the wireless on too loud upstairs as he gets changed for the night shift. 

The sound of a frau pissing loudly next door breaks the daydream, ruins any chance he may have had of sliding into sleep. 

"Where's George?" He eventually asks, when he realises that constant munching of food or tuning of guitar strings is missing, and Stu answers. 

"His mother sent him some money for the phone, he's down at the Mission, pouring coins in the box." 

There is a brief flare of warmth and affection in Paul's belly for Louise, and then he remembers who else is missing. "And John?" 

"Wandered off somewhere," Stu says, voice slightly drowsy with sleep, and Paul realises he's not going to get any of that any time soon, so he pulls himself up from the bed. 

"See you lot later." 

Hamburg in September is a lot like Liverpool in September - covered in drizzle and preparing itself to take that final dip into freezing, sharpening up the wind so that 

every now and then you'll have to pull your jacket around you and remember that summer is quickly going to be a memory. And it's grey too, off the Reeperbahn, grey and drab and harshly practical, with the stench of the port washing right over the city. There is the constant hum of voices shouting as the boats load and unload, the constant scrape of pallets along the wharf, making marks on the stone. It's the strangest version of home that Paul has ever been to. 

He finds John in the Indra, leaning back on a bar stool, feet up on the bar. 

"I'm chatting this one up," he says, as Paul approaches, and nods to the confused little brunette behind the bar. "Doesn't speak a word of English but she's going to suck my cock for me, aren't you, love?" 

The way he's nodding his head and raising his voice as though he's speaking to the world's deaf, the girl nods back. John beams at him triumphantly. "See?" 

"What the hell are you doing down here?" Paul asks, grabbing a stool for himself. "Spend enough bloody time down here when we're on stage. You a glutton for punishment?" 

"I'm a glutton for something," John mutters, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a bag he's got open on the bar. The whole bag is covered in German, Paul has no idea how he identified them in the shop. 

"Can't you find anything better to do with your time?" 

John shrugs, throws a peanut into the air and winces when it hits him in the eye instead of landing in his mouth. "George went off to phone the family - I've got no mummy to call, have I?" He asks, pulling his own version of a sad, spastic face. "So I stayed put in here." 

"Could have rung Mimi?" 

"She's had her one call of the week - any more and she'll start thinking I've gone soft. Anyway, what about you? You're hardly busy, are you? Sitting here bothering me; I was on my way to a good seeing to before you turned up." 

Paul can't help the grin that slides onto his face as John leers at the still confused barmaid. He picks a peanut from the bag and aims it at John's ear. 

"Oi!" 

"You'd be lucky, you're not her type." 

John frowns, still rubbing his ear uselessly. "I'm everyone's type, son." 

"Not 'ers, she's a dyke. Saw her kissing that mate of hers the other night when we came off stage." 

John seems to weigh up this information for a few minutes, finally shrugs his shoulders. "Ah, I'm sure they won't mind me watching." 

Paul lingers on that thought a second - that's one he hasn't tried yet, though they've been here just over a month now and obviously taken advantage of all the wild, wonderful things their sex-obsessed new home has to offer. They do live sex shows down at one of the bars nearer the docks, girls doing girls, girls doing men, girls even doing punters on stage... 

"Filthy beggar," John grins, spitting a peanut at Paul, damp from his mouth. "You're thinking about it." 

"Oh, shut up," Paul hears himself say lamely, sounding more embarrassed than he should, wiping his face where the peanut got him on the cheek. He ignores John's laugh when it comes. "We gonna go and do something, then? No point hanging 'round here all day and I'm going spare with lack of sleep." 

"Sleep is for the weak, my boy," John tells him, getting up from his stool with a patronising pat on Paul's head. "See you later, love!" He shouts overly-loud to the barmaid as he pulls his jacket on. "You can have a go on me then, alright?" 

Confused, she just nods helplessly and when Paul catches John's eye they both burst into laughter, Paul feeling thrilled and energised by John's joviality at this early hour; without prellies and a few pints of Germany's cheapest inside him, he's usually grumpy from lack of sleep. Before the buzz of being on stage kicks in, they're all pretty prone to their poor moods from the hangovers and the alien surroundings. 

Out on the street the wind is still sharp; Paul is grateful for the leather against his skin as John fixes up his hair, checking the neat pile of his DA is still in place as they pass a mean looking sailor, glancing at the two of them strangely. Paul realises that it's no good looking down and avoiding his eyes if John is giving him that usual challenging stare, half come-and-have-a-go and half really just squinting to see properly, so he speaks up, tries to divert John's attention. "Did you hear what that arsehole Koschmider has planned for us next?" 

"What?" John asks, successfully distracted, and the sailor passes on his way. 

"Reckons he needs Stu to gig opposite Derry and The Seniors at the Kaiserkeller with some band he's putting together - just trying to run us all ragged if you ask me." 

"He's a shit; what did Stu say?" 

"Happy to help out, I think," Paul replies, and watches with an ounce of strange satisfaction as John shakes his head in disappointment at Stu. Paul knows he wouldn't have gone, if he'd have been asked. He hopes John knows that. 

"So where are we - " 

"Jungen, Englanders!" 

They both turn at the sound of the refrain that is becoming familiar - Englanders, reminding them (as if they ever needed it) that they're very much not at home. It comes from two women standing on the corner, hidden slightly by the shadow of a near-by alleyway, but their dress making it clear what they're doing lingering down here so early. 

It's like a split second decision, whether to stop or walk on. Paul looks to John for the final say-so. "Want to?" 

John shrugs. "Nothing else to do." 

Paul digs in his pockets as they cross the street, catching John surreptitiously doing the same. It didn't take them long to start taking advantage of the 'unique' area they were suddenly thrown into, but it hasn't yet been long enough for Paul to feel completely comfortable with this, the no-nonsense hand over of money, the practical spit onto the hand the whores give before they slip inside your jeans. 

"You got another five Marks on you?" John asks, pooling what he has into his cupped palm, looking for all the world like a beggar, and Paul feels an odd flushing sensation and helping pay towards John's 'good time'. 

"Don't think so, I'm almost skint." 

"Let's lob it together then," John suggests. "What d'you reckon they'll give us for that?" 

"Um... a wank?" 

"Aye, one each hopefully," John mutters, taking Paul's money from him (all shrapnel, coins that jingle obviously loudly in the street) and offering it to the women before them. Now they're up close, Paul recognises one of them from the club after closing - that must have been how she knew who they were. "What d'we get for this, then?" John asks. He lacks any of the slight discomfort Paul still feels raging through his nerve endings. 

"Hand," the first woman says, and as though this isn't clear enough, she does the action. John turns to Paul and waggles his eyebrows, feature-distorting grin on his face. 

Paul can't help but match it, feeling the trace of nerves he had dying away. 

"Folgen sie," one of the women says, and leads them down the alleyway, further into the shadows, though not so far out of the weak autumn sunshine that it wouldn't be obvious to anyone passing what was going on. "Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly," Paul hears John muttering, and braces himself. He wonders which one of the women he's going to get. 

When they stop it's all so practiced, planned. The women (not girls, though perhaps that would be stranger) move them against the wall, close enough for Paul to hear the creak of the leather of John's jacket as he shifts himself, spreading his legs. A tremor of something thick and anticipatory, runs through Paul's brain. 

Then they shrug off their coats, the women (must be warm work, Paul thinks, then hates his brain for still being on thinking mode), and both tuck the Deutsche Mark into their boots, letting the coins fall deep, far away from where any opportunistic fingers could get hold of them if trying for a refund, then they share a look. Paul glances at John in turn, but he's too busy focussing on the women's chests, the deep dip of cleavage where their tops are pulled down purposefully low. 

"Nerven?" A voice asks him suddenly up close, and Paul turns back. The one that has decided to take him (the quieter of the two, faint lines around her eyes giving away her age - someone's mother, Paul thinks with an unpleasant shudder) is now up against him, running a perfunctory seductive hand against the outside of his thigh. 

"No," Paul says. "Nein - I mean, nein." He knows he's not hard yet (hasn't had a chance) and he hopes she doesn't just start, doesn't want John to see. 

He seems rather wrapped up in his own experience, however - "No kiss," Paul hears the other woman say. "For kiss, more Deutsche Marks." 

"Well I haven't got any more bloody Deutsche Mark, have I?" Paul hears John complain. "Come on, don't be harsh - give us a kiss." 

Maybe he's had her before, Paul thinks, because the next thing he knows he can hear the wet slide of lips and a strangled moan coming from John's throat, clearly content at getting what he wants. Paul tries to block the sound out, tries to focus on getting hard, aware this is supposed to be pleasurable. 

He thinks of Dot, of the way her hair curls damply around her face when they're in bed together, remembers the noise of her panting, restrained and high-pitch as though she's trying to be quiet but just can't manage it. About the soft, pliant curve of her waist as she lets him do whatever he wants. 

The sound of the whore spitting into her hand distracts him, but not that much. He's hard, he keeps his eyes shut so that he doesn't have to look at the lines around her eyes and it's alright. 

Until John comes, loudly. Paul tries not to listen, tries to focus on that image of Dot but it's more difficult today, perhaps because this particular encounter is so sterile. 

He can hear the jingle of the bracelets the woman is wearing and John zipping back up, seeming overly loud in the echoing space of the alleyway. Paul has his eyes shut good and tight - they're used to having sex in the same room but that's in beds. With blankets. And they're used to sitting round wanking in a circle but that's in the dark. They've never been side by side like this before, and Paul feels the uncomfortable pressure of people now waiting for him, like he's holding everyone up in this slightly insane situation. 

The smell of cigarette smoke drifts over him and Paul is wondering whether to give up when he hears the huff of John's laughter quietly beside him, just an inch too close. 

"Um.... Bridget Bardot," he says, and Paul gets an uncontrollable urge to laugh. 

"Fuck off, John," he replies, but it sounds far too amiable. Again John laughs. 

"Alma Cogan. With her tits out." 

This time Paul really wants to laugh. "Are we really fucking playing this game?" He asks, and hears his voice crack with pleasure on the word 'game' as the whore twists her wrist. 

"I'm not the one enjoying it," John says, obviously in reply to that, and Paul being a connoisseur of it, he can hear glee in John's voice. Still he doesn't open his eyes. 

That would be suicide. "Bardot and Cogan, both with their tits out, sitting on your lap." 

He's slightly ashamed that it's working, but it's worked before. Only difference is that then John couldn't see it, hunkered down in someone's dark bedroom somewhere. Paul wonders vaguely how much John can see now, how much he's watching, but isn't willing to open his eyes and check. 

"And?" He hears himself say, then wonders what the fuck he's doing. Why the hell is he egging him on? 

"Oh, it's 'And?' now is it?" John laughs, but it registers to Paul that he doesn't sound bothered. There is a the noise of a sharp drag on a cigarette and then - his voice thick with the exhale of smoke - John finishes, "Bardot licking at your neck like a hungry little kitten." 

Paul tries not to be too loud when he comes but knows John hears him because he snorts with laughter. It's only half as embarrassing as it should be. 

"Auf wiedersehen, jungen." One of women says, but Paul is zipping himself up so he doesn't reply, just avoids John's eye as the other shouts, 

"Danke, ladies! What lovely whores you are!" 

An uncomfortable feeling of embarrassment seems to spread out right through Paul's body as the relaxed, sated sensation of his orgasm quickly wears off. It feels clawing and abnormal and like something strange has just happened. He has no idea what to say. 

"God, could do with a fucking kip now," John announces, yawning loudly. "Back to the shithole for an hour before the gig, aye?" 

"Yeah, alright." 

As he exits the alleyway, Paul wishes he'd never gone in in the first place. 

 

 

  
The crowd in later that night is slightly thicker and fuller than the previous night; Paul thinks that must be a good thing. His 'mach shau-ing' has never been so exhausting though, or so fake. For the first time he wants to just take a night off. 

"What's up next?" George asks, speaking just a little bit too quickly, and Paul realises their little store of Prellies must be one or two down already. 

"An Everlys?" Stu offers as they all crowd around Pete's drums. After he speaks he takes a swig of his beer and wipes a trail of sweat from underneath his dark James Dean glasses. 

"Do you even get a say now you're fuckin' off with Koschmider's new band?" John replies, and for a second everyone goes quiet, looking between Stu and John like a tennis match. 

In the end Stu just shrugs. "Play what you like," he says. 

"We will, thanks," John sneers. "Paul?" 

He gets a brief flare of joy at being chosen over Stu, but Paul's answer is cut off from a voice down on the stage, some impatient punter. "Musik! Musik!" 

"Alright!" John shouts, "Keep your swastika on, we're fuckin' deciding!" He shakes his head. "What about Maggie May?" 

No one wants to contradict him after the outburst with Stuart, so they all go back to the mics. Whilst Paul has his head bowed over his guitar, giving a quick tune, a voice too-near his ear makes him jump. 

"D'you reckon either of them were called Maggie, then?" 

John is trying to hard to sound conversational, twisting the key at the top of his strings even though it's already perfectly in tune. It makes Paul strangely nervous. 

"Doubt it, not a German name, is it?" 

John shakes his head, not meeting his eye. "No. Not much to look at though, were they?" 

Paul remembers the want on John's features as he looked at them both down that alleyway though, and feels a strange burst of something in his stomach. "Definitely not." 

"The type where you have to picture someone else," John says, and he seems to be speaking loudly, clearly, so that Paul doesn't miss a word of it in the noise from the crowd, now milling at their feet. Then he finally looks up and he has that smug grin. "Maybe Alma Cogan, Bridget Bardot..." Paul feels himself flush, hopes the shitty lighting from the stage covers it. 

He thinks that at least the worst is over until John catches his eye and quite pointedly says, "And...?" A mirror image of the way Paul said it leaning back against the scruffy alleyway wall. He feels that hot, clawing emotion at his chest once again, but John just raises his eyebrows, grins a bit harder. Then he moves away to the mic. 

"Right you nazi fuckers," he says, good and loud into the sound system. "Get dancing." 

Paul falters on the first few notes, has to look to George for a chord pick-up. If he could get off the stage right now, far away from John, he would.


	2. Two

"Right, what d'you want? I'm buying." 

"You're stealing, you mean," Paul says, taking a look at some brightly coloured packet in the shop. This is half his problem here; he doesn't know what's in the bags. Once he bought what he thought was a loaf then got it home and realised it was something that was shaped like bread but instead was rich-smelling and brown and manky. They used it as a doorstop for three weeks, until it started growing something green. 

"Don't be so ungrateful," John trills in his best impression of Mimi, and Paul finds himself smiling down at the bar of chocolate in his hand. 

"Alright, this." 

"That? That's fucking tiny; come on, give me a challenge." 

Paul shakes his head with idle amusement. He casts an eye around for the biggest thing in the shop. "Alright - that bag of spuds." 

John grins in a way Paul suspects hasn't changed since he was a mischievous seven year old, giving every single one of his aunties and Julia hell. "Right, you're on." 

The potatoes are stacked in bags on the floor near the vegetables, a good distance from the door. The old Herr behind the counter is prattling away to his assistant about something and Paul sees John weighing up the best time to move, a twinkle in his eye that conveys how alive this rubbish makes him feel. Doing it for desperation Paul understands, but doing it for sport? It baffles him. 

"D'you want me to distract him?" Paul asks, placing the one thing he really wants - the chocolate bar - back on the shelf. 

"No, that's cheating," John tells him, and Paul has a quiet smile to himself at the irony. "Right, get ready to move." 

"What?" 

"To the door, now." 

Paul does as he's told, is vaguely aware of John unzipping his jacket, lifting the sack of spuds like a baby and then the outraged boom of the Herr behind the counter as he realises what's happening. 

"Fuck!" John laughs, half hysterical, and pushes Paul down the step. "Run! Run!" 

At this hour of the day the streets are busy; women with handcarts, old couples who look like they haven't got a penny to their name, the odd mother out with her baby, and they try to weave through them all, Paul in front on account of the fact he's not weighed down by a heavy bag of potatoes but with John close behind. Paul can hear him whooping with triumph as he runs, putting a good distance on their shopkeeper who is still giving chase, despite the age difference. 

The sights and sounds all seem to blur past him as he runs and even though Paul feels himself dragging the air into his lungs faster and faster to keep himself going, it's exhilarating. Despite the prellies and the nervous few moments before they step on stage every night, Paul hasn't felt this alive in a long time.

He has no idea where they're going and doesn't know the area greatly well, so Paul heads down the nearest alleyway, hoping John has followed him. He's rewarded a few moments later by the sound of John's boots pounding the cobbles behind him, and even though he can't hear another set of shoes giving chase to them, Paul carries on going anyway, just incase. 

They finally slow down when they get to the docks, both doing a quick check behind them before giving up to the luxury of breathing, leaning forward, hands resting on their knees as they take great gulps of air. Paul looks up over the now split bag of potatoes between them and manages a grin. 

"Nothing like - " John speaks in quick bursts, "A good healthy - " He is panting, and Paul becomes fixated with the noise. "Dash from prosecution to liven up the day." 

This, Paul thinks as he drags his breathless body to a near-by bench on the quay front, is what Jim McCartney warned him about. But his dad should have known that everyone needs at least one mate like John, to make you do the things you'd never usually do. 

"God, I thought he was going to give himself a rupture," John pants, and Paul shifts away automatically when he feels a body land next to his on the bench. "Did you see 'im?" 

"I didn't turn around," Paul says. All of his muscles feel like they're on fire, straining in his legs. His brain is confused at the sudden lack of action too, after such a harsh flight-or-fight response. 

"Christ, he was like a big fucking wildebeest - angry and red faced and charging at me like mad." 

John does the impression, suddenly looming over him and Paul leans away, laughing. "Not surprised, some little Teddy Boy shit stealing his stock." 

John shrugs, suddenly all calm again, after the wildebeest impression. "So? Bloody serves him right." 

"Serves him right for what?" Paul asks, and feels his lungs still gulping in the air, just incase. But John never answers. Instead they just sit there in peace, looking out over the water - there is a massive great hulk of a ship near-by them and three men all throwing crates to one another, like a relay down the loading plank. The fella at the top has a harsh sort of stare, strong nose a bit like John and Paul watches him for a while. It's distracting. 

"So what are we going to do with all them, then?" Paul eventually asks, dragging his eyes back to their pile of potatoes, now spilled out on the floor. "Take 'em back to the Indy, make Pete peel 'em and cook us some chips?" 

"Oh God," John groans, like he's just suggested Bardot covered in chocolate. "And an egg, a bloody good fried egg. Or Mimi's steak pie. Yes please." 

Paul realises as John talks that he feels half-starved himself. Of everything. Of normal bloody food, anything homecooked, of nights out at the cinema, of nights _off,_ of proper sleep. Of everything. Except perhaps sex. 

"I'd settle for anything at the moment," he mutters. 

"Good job I nicked you this then, isn't it?" John asks, and hands over a chocolate bar - the one he originally said he wanted in the shop. Paul feels himself beaming. "I know you could kiss me," John says idly and in a stupid voice, "But best not here, sailors are funny types; don't want to be running home as well, do we?" 

Paul gets the oddest flash of that noise from the other day, John begging that whore in the alleyway for a kiss and then the sound of her tongue slipping over his - he wishes he hadn't of thought of it as soon as he does. He shouldn't be remembering things like that. 

Suddenly uncomfortable, he gets up from the bench. "I reckon we'd better get rid of these," he hears himself say, focussing in on the potatoes. "Got nowhere to cook them, anyway." 

"What a fucking waste of food." But John picks one up anyway, throws it into the harbour. The noise it makes is strangely satisfying so Paul gives it a go too, then watches the ripples moving out on the water from where it disappeared. He's surprised at how one small thing can make such a big impact. 

They both carry on throwing the ugly great potatoes in, one splash after another, almost rhythmic when they both get going. Paul can feel the soil on his hands from handling so many but it's oddly satisfying, chucking them all away like this. 

"You not going to eat that, then?" John asks when they're almost done. He nods to the chocolate bar which is now nestled snuggly against Paul's thigh in his jeans pocket, probably slowly melting from the heat of his skin. Paul realises John is looking at him oddly, almost half-hurt, but something else strange in the look too. 

"What? Oh, yeah, later. We goin' back?" 

He starts moving without waiting for John to speak, covering the cobbles as fast as he can. The chocolate presses like a great weight against the denim of his jeans, wondering why John took it especially for him. 

 

 

 

Tonight they're doing a short instrumental bit whilst some redhead girl called Eva strips for the punters. Koschmider doesn't put stuff like that on at the Indra very often, but he's trying out something new. 

"I think I'm gonna get distracted," George says, eyes already on the little tassels Eva is fixing to her nipples as they all stand in the corridor, waiting to go on stage. 

"You'd better fucking not," John tells him. "The second we start sounding shit, we're out. He's not soft, y'know, he'll replace us with someone else like that." He snaps his fingers and Paul feels himself stifle a yawn. 

"Where's Stu?" Pete asks, and Paul feels briefly sorry for him, always the last to know. 

"He's gone to that back-up gig Koschmider asked him to do, opposite Derry and the Seniors at the Kaiserkeller." 

"Judas," John mutters, then the banging on the tables starts from out in the club area and someone shouts in German, causing an uproar. "I think that's us, gentlemen." 

Instead of their usual centre stage formation they back out around the edges of the stage, Pete practically hidden in the shadows from the lights on the girl upfront and John on the far side, leaning back against the wall with his guitar slung around his neck, looking like it's a personal affront they have to step aside for Eva. 

Paul takes the opposite wall with George, close enough to shout over the music and the din, not close enough to lean on the same amp. He can see even from the edges like this that the club is far more packed than when it's just them and Paul feels an edge of disappointment. He's determined that one day they'll pack this place out all on their own, even if it has to kill him. 

They start off playing the instrumental numbers, but with John's refusal to do any Shadows songs, they quickly have to start doing their more usual stuff, minus the singing. 

Paul has a good view of the girl, picking her way through her clothing, spending far too much time on each piece, drawing it out. She drops a sheer stocking on purpose and bends down to get it, arching her back like a cat for the audience, but instead of following the floor show, Paul looks at John instead. 

He's doing his best impression of moody and troubled, though actually with John it's always hard to find the line where that particular act actually starts. But he cuts a good figure, one leg bent at the knee, foot resting against the wall behind him as he leans back, legs long in the leather he's wearing which is catching the stage lights at certain angles, illuminating ripples here and there. And his head is bowed, with lack of a microphone to sing into or an attentive crowd to jeer at he's watching his fingering on the neck of his guitar, concentration covering his features. 

The girl stands up again, makes a show of pulling her bra off and Paul shifts sideways slightly so she's not obscuring his view. 

It's been a bit strange, getting used to living with him over the past month or so; especially in such a cramped space. On the tour of Scotland with Johnny Gentle it was different, only a couple of weeks and more like a holiday, but coming to Hamburg was the opposite - much more like work, despite all the fun they have been invariably having. And of course Hamburg itself is different, it's given John more of a chance to go a bit mental, cut the final ties Mimi had over him in Liverpool, holding him back from complete freedom. Paul had always known that with John anything and everything goes but... well, it was never so obvious. And all the things he has always admired about John are just that bit stronger too, thrown into sharp relief by the stark light of everything that happens on the Reeperbahn - all the stuff that Paul always thought was cool about him, all the aspects of him that Paul secretly wished he had and looked up to. John's always been the one they all admired, but Paul feels like it's got worse since they've been here, how he's just fitted in instantly, like none of this surprises him, the way he just flings himself into new experiences, never cautious or concerned about the long term the way Paul constantly finds himself feeling. 

It's not like Paul doesn't like himself - he does. He just wishes sometimes he could be a little bit more like John. A little bit. 

John looks up from the neck of his guitar like he's sensed he's being watched and Paul sees him squint through the cigarette smoke filtering in from the crowd before his vision focuses enough to meet Paul's eye. He gives one of his stupid lopsided grins and Paul feels himself smile in return - suddenly the stage feels like an interesting place to be again. John nods lazily towards the stripper, now twirling the tassels on her breasts, and rolls his eyes. To be fair it is pretty tame compared to the other things they've seen here, so Paul nods but inclines his head towards George (who is staring like the whole thing is _very_ interesting, thank you very much) and grins. John shakes his head and Paul can hear John's voice in his mind saying, "Kid," in that half patronising, half protective tone he always saves especially for George. 

Paul then looks idly over to where Pete is playing, looking frankly mind-numbingly bored, and glances back at John pointedly - neither of them are really quite sure about Pete, who only joined them a couple of weeks before they left for Germany and who so far feels slightly like the wrong jigsaw piece squashed into a hole it doesn't really fit. But John just shrugs at him; there's nothing either of them can do, he's the only available drummer at the moment who can keep a decent backbeat and no one will take them as a four guitar piece anymore, especially not Bruno Koschmider. 

A noise in the crowd drags John's attention away and Paul is left looking at his side profile, that familiar nose, his eyes squinting like mad in the low light of the club and even though the stripper is now down to her barest, doing her all important final reveal, Paul still doesn't bother looking away from John. He wasn't too bothered about the floor show, anyway. 

 

 

 

In his dream, John is dancing with Dot, though the strange thing is that even though she doesn't look an ounce like Dot, Paul _knows_ it's her; it feels like her when she looks at him. They're sort of jiving, though God knows why because John wouldn't be caught dead jiving, and Dot doesn't know how, she once told him so. 

But in the dream there they are, out on the dancefloor whilst Paul is stuck up on the stage. He's been ordered up there to play the drums because they've got no one else and if he leaves, the Polizei will deport them straight away. Paul isn't sure how he knows this for certain, but he knows it's true in that way you sometimes do in dreams (which this most definitely is, because his mother has just brought him a flask of tea and that's the way Paul always knows things are a dream - his mum). 

So John and Not-Dot are dancing, which really shouldn't bother him because John is the jealous one, the rip-you-apart-if-you-look-at-his-girl one, but Paul discovers that actually, he is now too. He wants to get between them because it doesn't seem fair that he's laid all the groundwork with Dot, been polite with her mother and listened to her father droning on, and now John gets to dance with her. 

But somehow when Paul looks up again, it's not Dot anymore dancing with John, it's Stu. And he finds he still feels jealous. 

So he tries to get up from the drum kit, to go down there and - well, he's not sure what, but he discovers that he can't move his feet from the pedals anyway; Koschmider has superglued them on, must have done it when he wasn't looking. And Paul can't drop the sticks either, because somehow his hands _are_ the sticks, which he can't explain to himself. So he tries to shout over the constant repetitive roll of his own drumbeat but John doesn't hear him, too busy dancing with Stu to care. And Paul has never felt so much frustration in his life. 

The noise of the drumbeat gets slowly louder until it starts to sound more like a grunt, over and over and over again and - 

Paul wakes up on his tatty little mattress on the floor and realises the grunting isn't the drums, it's Pete. And some girl he has with him, who sounds like she's trying to be as loud as humanly possible. 

And there's a grumbling beside him too, which Paul realises is John, trying to pull as much of the blanket over his head as he can whilst muttering, "Fucking bloody fucking hell." 

Half asleep, Paul reaches for the corner of the blanket John has slung over his head and peeps underneath at him. John looks grumpy in the extreme. 

"If he doesn't fucking stop the steam engine impression, I'm goin' to swing for him." 

For some reason, Paul finds this all hysterically funny. Perhaps because he's no longer stuck to a drumkit, relegated to the back of the stage whilst Stu has fun with John. He tries not to laugh. 

"It's not fucking funny," John says, dragging the blanket further up so that now it's covering both of them, Paul and John huddling in their own little tent. "Before you woke up she was shouting, 'More! More!' like a monkey at a banana eating contest." 

Paul splutters, physically has to press his face into the pile of folded up clothes John is using as a pillow to stop himself from laughing. He feels his whole body shaking in the darkness, Pete and his friend still going loudly in the distance. "Christ," John mutters again when a female voice starts shouting, 'Ja, ja!' and because it's uncomfortable being sprawled between two beds, half in and half out of John's little tent, Paul shifts himself closer. He can smell cigarettes and the beer John was drinking earlier and the horrible cheap cinema soap they've all had to start using. The air underneath the blankets is warm and stuffy and Paul knows that pretty soon he'll have to duck out to catch a real breath, despite the noise. 

"She sounds friendly, at least," he says, and the scowl slips minutely from John's features. 

"Wonder where he got her..." 

"You would." 

"Like you bloody well wouldn't." 

Paul grins. "He's making a right meal of it, anyway." 

"He was making a meal of _her_ earlier; right down between her - " 

"Yes, thank you," Paul whispers, and watches John smirk. 

"God, am _I_ this loud?" 

"Louder." 

"Well this makes you sound quiet." 

"Piss off," Paul smirks. 

"God, it feels like it's been going on for weeks - you slept through most of it." 

Paul remembers the dream, the noise of the drums he was so ceaselessly playing and it all clicks together, the noises in his sub-conscious and the noises in the room. 

The image of John and Stu dancing swims back into his mind and he frowns, wondering what the hell that was all about, dreaming about dancing. 

Under the blankets, Paul catches John's eye again, realises he's been staring at him. For a minute or two they just stay that way, eye contact held as Pete and his girl groan away in the background - Paul feels the desperate need to pull his head out from under the covers and take deep, clear breaths of air but he doesn't really want to just yet. It's nice under here, though he can't say why. 

"Bloody hell," John eventually whispers, just as the noise outside gets to a crescendo. "Listening to that makes me fucking randy though." 

Paul gets the strangest sensation John is aiming this comment at him. 

Then he snaps back to reality when John speaks again, familiar smirk slipping back onto his features. "I'll steal you another bag of spuds if you tell her to come over 'ere and do me when she's finished." 

He feels a sickening weight of unexpected disappointment settle somewhere in his mind, then instantly feels uncomfortable - why did he think that? Why did he _want_ that? 

Paul can't deny himself the breath anymore, gives a quick false laugh to John's comment and then ducks out from under the blankets, taking great gulps of fresh air. 

The noise has stopped now anyway, it's safe to come out. No need to be hiding under blankets now. 

He shifts fully back onto his bed quickly, turns over and shuts his eyes. He _thought_ about it. In that second he thought John was offering something to him, Paul had _thought_ about helping him cure how randy he felt. 

And he hadn't been disgusted by it.


	3. Three

"You're a fucking mental case - just give it to me!" 

"I paid for it, John - in fact I still _owe_ on it." 

Paul stands in the doorway of the Mission, drawing out the last few drags of his cigarette, huddled into the collar of his jacket against the wind. John is arguing with one of The Seniors (Paul isn't sure which) about a guitar that isn't his. Paul wants to tell him it's pointless, but John never listens when he's got it in his mind to have a good barney. Which is actually a good deal of the time. 

"D'you want me to break your fuckin' neck for you, son?" 

Paul almost burns his fingers on the hot ash of his ciggie as he takes a final drag then crunches the butt out on the floor underneath his boot. That's his last one until he can scrape the money together to buy more; he's not sure how he's always so penniless considering he's earning more money now than he ever has. 

"There's no need for that, John." 

"Well if there's no fuckin' need for it, why don't you just hand the guitar over, you great cunt?" 

Paul winces slightly at the word, purely out of habit. He once said it in front of his father and got a clack round the ear for it; he's never quite forgotten. 

"Alright John, alright - calm down." 

The Senior disappears back into the Mission, presumably to get the guitar. Paul has found that a surprising amount of people do what John asks when he shouts that loudly. He can be really fucking terrifying when he wants to be. 

"He's a right dick splash, that one," John mutters, tone suddenly conversational as he joins Paul back down on the step. "You still got that ciggie?" 

"Just finished it." 

"Bollocks. I'm all out - fancy lending me one?" 

"Piss off," Paul grins, "I've got none myself." 

"God, you're a right tosser - do I have to shout at you, an' all?" 

But John is grinning at him, and Paul is safe in the knowledge that John would never fight with him, not like _that_ \- in the two, slightly insane years since Julia died, whilst John has often seemed like he's purposefully trying to get himself kicked in the head, he's never once fallen out with Paul. Never. And Paul feels strangely proud of that. "Yeah, I reckon you probably do." 

"Right!" John shouts, barely able to keep that stupid grin off his features as he comes up close, all mock intimidation (and Paul has to admit that even like this he still has a presence, a thrilling sort of power about him). "You lookin' at me, mate?" 

Despite the sudden use of a stupid Yorkshire accent that makes him sound like a farmer, Paul tries to keep a straight face and play along. 

"Aye," he says, going Welsh himself just to watch John try not to laugh. "What you gonna do about it, mate?" 

John starts shadow-boxing like he's the prize fighter in a ring and Paul joins in so that they're circling each other, putting on his mean face and carefully watching the gleam in John's eyes. "Think you're 'ard? Wanna try your lucky with me?" 

"I've put bigger men than you in body-casts," Paul replies, purposefully making his voice high and squeaky so that John has trouble keeping his face straight. He's trying to think of ways to make him laugh, that oddly high-pitched giggle that you wouldn't think to look at him that John was capable of. 

Finally they plant themselves, staring overly serious at each other like it's a Western, then Paul forgets the game for a moment as John starts walking forward, closing the gap between them. He wants to see what John will do, but he also doesn't seem to be able to stop looking for a second, even to blink. There's an odd kind of quiet until, "Give us a fuckin' ciggie, you girly faced little shit." 

Paul actually starts laughing at that, until John grabs the collar of the shirt he's wearing and hauls him right up close. Then John is inches away from his face and Paul is looking _right_ into those closed-off brown eyes, and it doesn't seem very funny anymore. Though actually fear is right at the opposite end of the scale from what he feels. 

"Make me," Paul hears himself say, in a strange sort of voice, and wonders vaguely what part of his brain has kicked in and is now controlling his voice box. 

At that John just laughs, sort of short and gleeful then says in a more serious voice, "Oh aye, tough guy, is it?" 

But Paul hears him as though from a long way off, because he's not really listening; his blood seems to be roaring loudly in his ears, all his body screaming out on high alert so that he can't pay much attention to anything but that. Because he feels like he's going to _do_ something. Like he _wants_ to do something, but he can't bear to think about what. And an alarming stab of fear shoots through him that he has no control over this, this feeling. Shit, what if he just _does_ it?! 

"Here's the - " 

A voice from the doorway beside them snaps them both out of the moment and Paul is acutely aware of John's hands falling off him, pushing him away ever-so-slightly. He glances at the Senior in the doorway whose expression now looks genuinely afraid that this psycho who has come demanding his guitar appears to now even be beating up his best mate, and watches the hasty exchange of the guitar. The case it's in looks mint and brand new, and Paul can see why John wants it. 

"Finally," John sneers, snatching the handle of the case. "Christ, wasn't so hard, was it? I'll send it back over with Stu when I'm done." 

"Fine, whatever John," the poor bloke says, and shuts the door. 

Paul feels vaguely like his head is spinning. Under his clothes he feels hot and uncomfortable. 

"Reckon this should liven up that version of Dizzy Miss Lizzy," John comments conversationally, as though he _didn't_ just leave that lad slightly terrified. 

"Yeah," Paul replies,but he's not really listening as John goes on, ranting slightly about them all still being at the Indy because their equipment is shit. Instead he's thinking about that spasm of fear he'd felt a few moments ago, how real that feeling had been that he was going to _do_ something. 

And Paul flinches slightly when he realises that the first thing his body had wanted to do when up so close to John was to _kiss_ him. Like that was the _logical_ thing for him to do. And he might have done it, might have just kissed his male best mate in the middle of the street if that Senior hadn't shown up with the guitar. Because he _wanted_ to. The thought of it terrifies him, and he immediately feels sick, feels his stomach churning over and stops in the middle of the road they're walking along, bile rising in his throat as he passes a confused John beside him and goes over to the railings running along the wharf and dry-heaves onto a patch of grass. 

Nothing comes up, but his stomach is still going, making him reel backwards slightly. He wanted to kiss him. _Wants_ to kiss him. 

"What's up with you?" John asks. 

"Think I'm goin' to be sick," Paul manages to reply before heaving again, but still nothing. 

When he finally stands up, John is frowning at him. "Better now?" 

Paul doubts he'll ever be better after this. 

 

 

 

"I'll sub you, y'know," George says quietly, showing Paul a handful of Deutsche Mark that looks like a small fortune - George is keeping it to himself so it must be from the stash Louise sent him, make sure he's being fed and watered well. For a flash, Paul misses his mum. 

"No, it's okay, I'm not hungry anyway." 

"Oh come on," John moans, sniffing at one of the shirts from his pile on the floor to check how clean it is. "It's just a hangover." 

"It's not a hangover," Paul mutters, looking sharply away as John decides the shirt is going on no matter how dirty it is and starts taking off his old one. Paul really doesn't want to see him without a shirt on, not right now. 

"God, don't be such a baby, Paul." 

And as much as Paul hates that, being called a baby and made to feel like he's being the weak link of the group, he still has to say no. He couldn't eat, not the way he's feeling. It'd just all come straight back up again; what a waste of Louise's money. 

"See you guys later," he says, turning over on his mattress, and he waits for the noise of them all getting ready to drift away. The door opens and there is the sound of feet, then after that the bang of it closing. Paul starts to feel himself relax slightly until - 

"Come on," the edge of the mattress dips and Paul jumps a little bit, turning over at the sound of John's voice. "Don't leave me with them two; George is always trying to give the waitress a pull and Pete's about as interesting as genital warts." 

Despite how grim he feels, Paul wants to laugh. "Can't, John; feel like death. Where's Stu, anyway?" 

John looks miserable, but thankfully he hasn't had a drink yet so Paul knows he's not likely to fall into an epic sulk. "Got an early gig at the Kaiserkeller, hasn't he?" 

Paul considers ranting what he's been thinking all week - that their least accomplished player is somehow on at the club they've been aiming for whilst they're still stuck at the stinking little Indra and down one player to add insult to injury. He knows John would join in, the mood he's in, but then he'd just stay longer and Paul said no to going out for something to eat just so that he could have a bit of space. 

He tries to ignore the fact that what he'd really like is for John to stay with him. 

"Jammy get," he settles for, and John smiles. Then he walks his fingers quickly up Paul's arm, over his shoulder and cheek then ends by flicking him painfully on the nose. 

"You definitely not coming, then?" 

Paul brushes at his nose in response, still able to feel the trace of those fingers up his arm. "No, best not." 

"Lightweight," John says, getting up. "Better be fit for the gig, no skiving off or I'll tan your arse." 

"You sound like Mimi." 

"Fuck off." 

"See you later." 

The door opens but doesn't shut immediately and in the few moments that go by, Paul wonders what the hell John must be doing. Finally he hears the huffing noise of a long sigh. "You really definitely not coming, then?" 

Paul smiles against the blanket. "Bye, mate." 

"Aye, see ya." 

The door finally shuts, then Paul turns over and looks around the room. He half expects to find John still there, but he doesn't. 

If he's being honest, he can't even pretend he doesn't know where this has come from - the kissing, he still doesn't understand that, but the rest of it, the fascination with John, the getting closer; well, he's always hoped for that. Ever since John met Stu, Paul feels like he's been fighting for his attention, even more so after Cynthia, though after he got with Dot that became less of a problem because at least then they could double date. Dot was an advantage over Stu. Paul doesn't mind admitting he's always wanted a best mate he did everything with, nor that when he met John he thought he'd found that. He'd always wanted someone he could write songs or duet like the Everlys with. John would hate admitting something like that, but Paul doesn't mind. He doesn't mind needing someone. 

But John, for all his insults and his intimidation, has never been short of friends, so Paul has found himself relegated slightly, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't lain awake one or two nights, wondering what to do about that. 

So he isn't surprised that he's happier now Stu has got this gig at the Kaiserkeller, or that he's happy Hamburg has thrown him and John into the same living space, spending most of their time together. 

He didn't expect to want to kiss him, though. Or that thought last night hiding under the blankets, the thought that now makes Paul want to dig his head under the old cinema seat cushion he's currently using for a pillow. He feels sick about all that, for being more aware than usual of John's hands, John's body. John's mouth. 

Of course the thought has crossed his mind that he might be queer, but Paul isn't stupid, he knows the way that he feels about girls, especially about Dot and he definitely knows the reaction his body has when he walks down Grosse Freiheit and sees the women in those shop windows. Definitely not queer. 

So it's John. Just John. 

And Paul has to himself it's just something stupid, just being away from home and one of those things your brain does to you sometimes, just because it knows it shouldn't. He still remembers when he was about 16, meeting up with a cousin he hadn't seen for years and being unable to stop look at her chest, realising he fancied her; his own bloody cousin. So it wouldn't be the first time his brain had given him sick ideas. 

He just needs to tell himself to stop thinking it. And to stay away a little bit for a while, not to let John touch him too much if he can help it, incase his body wants to do something insane again. Probably the worst thing is that Paul knows that if John knew he was thinking this way about him, John would never want to speak to him again. Paul would be out of the band and he'd lose his best mates, including George, who'd probably think he was right old pervert. 

So Paul decides he has to back off, keep an eye on himself. He can't let anyone find out about this. _Anyone._

 

 

 

  
"And now I'd like to play a song most of you lovely Krauts won't have heard of - this is called, 'Paul's An Arsehole'." 

Paul laughs and picks up the nearest missile he can find, lobbing it at John. Turns out it is some angry docker's pack of ciggies left on the side of the stage and John falls into peels of laughter when the packet misses him and Paul has to try and find every German word in his arsenal before he hits on the translation of 'sorry'. 

The club is slightly more packed than the previous night and there are a bunch of giggling girls sitting in the corner that Paul saw there three times last week, so the atmosphere is up on stage. George has been generous and got a long row of drinks in, glasses lined up at the front of the stage amongst some empties from last night, and John is already chugging his way through his allocation, eyes shining brightly with that and a combination of prellies, which the barmaid helpfully handed round before the set. Under the glowing orange lights on stage Paul feels like he's sweating out every inch of water in him, but at least he's not tipping on the edge of exhaustion after his afternoon sleep. 

"Right, enough of the dicking around," John mutters into the microphone, and a couple of English speaking sailors shout, 'Hear hear!' before John flicks them the Vs. "This is 'Long Tall Sally'." 

It's not hard trying to throw his all into it, and Paul feels the adrenaline kick up in his blood stream as he leans into the microphone and screams the opening line. He's been trying to forget that moment outside the Mission between him and John all day, and now he's finally starting to manage it, letting go of everything but the chords he has to remember to play and the words he's currently shouting down the microphone. When they're playing like this on top form (with, or usually without, Stuart) Paul always feels like nothing else in the world can touch him anyway. 

He can feel the trickle of sweat sliding down his temple from his hairline as they break into the middle eight and Paul glances over at John, who starts jumping about like a lunatic as soon as he realises Paul is watching him. He turns around and shakes his arse in a parody of the enthusiastic frauleins on the dance floor and Paul completely misses his cue to sing, he's laughing so much. Pete and George try to pick up for him but Paul is finding composure rather hard to achieve as John is still waggling his behind at him, occasionally turning to check he still has the audience he wants. 

When the song is finished, they both go forward at the same time for a drink and Paul can't help but note the way John's hair is falling down onto his forehead after all the energetic throwing himself around. Plus he's squinting in the poor light and when they both squat down to get their pint glasses, their knees brush together. 

"Lovely to hear Pete's dulcet tones there," John remarks before taking a gulp of beer and Paul feels stupid laughter bubbling up in his chest again. 

"Oh sorry, I thought Little Richard was on stage with us for a minute - was that Pete?" 

John grins manically at him and waits until Paul has put his glass to his lips before giving him a light push on the shoulder so that Paul falls ungraciously on his arse. 

He should really be mad about this, but he isn't. And he's about to shove John back when - 

"Excuse, excuse?" 

Paul reluctantly looks away to the skinny German lad a few inches away from the stage. He's got spots and a shock of blond hair that makes him look like a puppet. Paul's surprised he's lasted so far into the night in such a rough dive like the Indy. "Yes, mate?" 

"You play slow, yes? For my girlfriend? We dance." 

"Ah, yeah," Paul nods. "A slow song?" 

"Slow, ja." 

"Course, mate," John calls across the general noise of the club. "We'll give your girlfriend a nice slow song; I'll give her a nice slow screw as well, if you want?" 

When the puppet starts to look confused, Paul kicks John's boot with his own, forgetting his rule about keeping his distance and nods at the blond guy. "Sure, no worries, the next song is a slow one." 

"Danke," he smiles, then goes away to find his aforementioned girlfriend. 

"What's it to be, then?" John asks, taking one last gulp of his pint before standing up. Paul is so high on the prellies and drunk on the beer that when John offers him his hand, he lets himself be pulled up. He doesn't think too much about the warmth of his palm, or how good it feels. 

"Um... Till I Kissed You?" 

It's not until the words are out of his mouth that Paul feels something jar in his brain and he stops, looks down at the floor to pull the lead from his guitar away from his feet just to have something to do. Fuck. Now he's going to have to sing that crap with John right next to him at the mic. "Or maybe - " 

But John is already getting in place, saying something to Pete and to George, and Paul has no choice but to join him. "You ready?" John asks, glancing up from the neck of his guitar. Paul tries to keep looking at his eyes, not his mouth. Just nods to show yeah, he is. 

The stage at the Indy is hardly the biggest place in the world, but it suddenly feels smaller as the song starts up, Paul trying to remember his finger placements, keeping his mind on the chords, all mechanical and repetitive in his mind. Then when they start to sing, he glances out at the crowd, concentrates on the faces there; an older guy on his own, hair fuzzy and grey and eyes like he's half asleep over his pint of beer, two rough seamen playing cards, skin as coarse and brittle as their hands sitting under a plume of smoke rising from their pungent foreign ciggies sitting on an ashtray between them. Then there are the girls in the corner, and Paul sees now that he's looking properly that they're probably a bit older, maybe early twenties, and that when he catches the eye of the redhead sitting nearest the stage, she smiles at him. 

Paul winks. In return she smiles a little more, raises the edge of her glass to him. 

Then Paul feels a kick to the edge of his shoe and he turns his eyes back to John, who glances pointedly at the redhead then back, waggles his eyebrows. Around the words he is singing, his lips are turning up into a smirk. 

The familiar, harsh twang of George's lead starts up and Paul thankfully backs away from the microphone for the middle eight, glad to be away from the small space and the feeling of breathing in the very same air as John. He feels suddenly sick again, but this time it's more like a lump in his throat, not that violent urge to empty his stomach but more of a low-lying nausea, the type that doesn't go away. 

He must be in a daydream because John shouts, "Oi!" And Paul has to move himself back to the mic quickly, joining in just a few seconds too late with John's words. Paul hears their voices slip up to the same note and stay there briefly, sounding like they're effortlessly in sync. 

Thankfully it's pretty quickly over, and Paul ducks down for a drink straight away - his mouth has gone dry. He had hoped the beer would get him just drunk enough to be able not to care, but it seems all it has done has made his brain lazy and far too honest with itself. Whatever happened to drinking to forget. 

"What's up with you, soft lad?" John asks, kicking him remorselessly in the backside, and Paul brushes at the spot with his hand when he stands up. 

"What? Nothing." 

"Wonderin' if she's collar an' cuff, eh?" 

George overhears this and starts laughing. Pete is already down off the stage for their scheduled break but where he's gone, Paul has no idea. 

"Something like that," Paul mutters. 

"Which one's he after, eh?" George asks John, and John studies Paul carefully a minute - a bit too carefully - before answering. 

"The redhead, down near the bar. She's got enough mates for all of us but you're getting the weird looking one with the lazy eye, my friend." 

"Not if I can pull the blonde one first," George challenges, slipping John a cheeky grin and hopping down off the stage, straight in the direction of the waiting women. 

"Christ," John mutters, lifting his guitar over his head. "Give him a whiff of it and he's away - only lost his bloody virginity a couple of weeks ago." 

"Making up for lost time," Paul says, distracted. He wonders if he should get outside and find Pete, just to get away from John. He feels like some sort of sicko that needs to be kept away from the normal people. 

"If he gets that one with the big tits, I'm shopping him to Koschmider about still being underage." 

Paul looks up at this, briefly concerned John might actually do it; there's never any telling with John. But when he looks up he sees there isn't an ounce of seriousness in his features, just a little bit of jealousy. "What you doing stood around here then? Why aren't you down there marking your territory like a cat?" 

John directs his focus away from the girls and back onto Paul. "Bloody waiting for you, aren't I?" He gives Paul that specific stare he has sometimes, like he's knows what you're thinking, then he glances down at Paul's jacket. "And you look a fuckin' mess, straighten yourself up." 

Paul is mildly proud of himself for not flinching when John steps closer, tugs at the corners of Paul's jacket and pulls him straight. Even the brush of the back of a finger on his neck doesn't make Paul wince. 

And because he wants to - because his _body_ wants to - Paul reaches out and does the same thing back to John until they're standing there smiling at each other. 

"Better?" John asks, and his tone is softer than Paul has heard it in a long while. 

"Yeah," he replies. 

"Right then," John inhales, touching the front of his hair, combing it up briefly with his fingers. "Birds." 

They go down from the stage and John makes a beeline for the women, no messing and no pretence seen as George is already there. "Alright ladies?" Paul hears John ask, and he smiles at the redhead again, glad to see she's already looking in his direction. "You speak much English?" 

"Nein, no English," the blonde says, apologetically. 

"That'll make this much easier then," John grins, reaching in for one of the beers bought for them on the table. "Who needs talkin', eh?" 

Ten minutes later and they're all on a promise. 

_Fifteen_ minutes later and George is complaining that they have to play the final half of their set before they can take the girls home. 

And twenty minutes later Paul is watching John kiss the busty blonde, hand shamelessly grazing her breast in full view of the rest of the table as his lips slide over hers, tugging at the bottom one softly, making her moan. 

And all he can think is, 'I want that'.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The club described at the end of the chapter actually existed, and in his tales of Hamburg Horst Fascher relates the story of John being fascinated with the place.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Jo - "

"Shut the fuck up."

George grins at Paul over the grouchy, newly-woken lump between them. "What d'you reckon, should we egg him?"

"Try it and you die, son," John mutters, his voice severely muffled by the blankets.

"But Stu's baked you a cake, haven't you, Stu?"

"Two," Stu calls from his mattress by the window. "I've baked him two. Why, is he being grumpy?"

"Just a bit," Paul says, staring at the ceiling. "Not much though, you know John."

"We've clubbed together and bought you a whore, John," Pete says, mid-yawn.

"Let's be havin' her, then," says John's muffled voice, but all there is in reply is the rustle of some paper. A magazine, to be precise.

"Actually this was the only thing we could afford," George says, producing the porn mag Pete had been entrusted with buying last week, still in it's brown paper wrapping for all those business men who don't want to get caught out at the office.

Paul watches as John surfaces for a brief moment, pulling the blankets back from over his head. His hair is slightly mad and unruly and he looks... Paul doesn't like the first word that springs to mind (sexy) so he goes for messy. John looks messy, and like he'd be warm from sleep.

"Bloody hell," John says in a low voice, then whistles as he shoves the brown paper cover aside and flicks through the odd page of the magazine. "Good choice, boys."

From the corner, Stuart laughs. "We just got the most disgusting looking thing we could find and thought..."

"...That'll suit John," Pete finishes. At being judged in such a way, John just grins widely. 

"Well, that's my morning sorted then," he says, and ducks back down underneath the covers, causing simultaneous bursts of laughter and disgust from George and Stu.

The second he realises what is going to unfold, however, Paul drags himself up off his mattress. He doesn't want to stay to listen to this. Can't, really. "Right, I'm going to get washed."

It's been four days since they were moved to the Kaiserkeller to play opposite Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, so four days since the Indra was shut down and four days since the Seniors went back to England, leaving them with Stu as a bass player again. It's been a curious mixture of exhausting and thrilling playing at the much better, much bigger club, and their audience seems to have transferred with them, which Koschmider seems to be happy about. They're still stuck sleeping behind the Bambi though, and still stuck washing in the cinema toilets, mores the pity.

Paul wets his toothbrush under the clean water streaming from the sink in front of him and starts to clean his teeth, glancing up at the tiles next to the mirror and counting the cracks, watching how far the mould spreads up from the wall. This place has a cleaner, but she's clearly not the best one in the world, and Koschmider doesn't give a crap about what shape his places are in, only that he gets the money from the people using them. Anyone questioning that is likely to see the sharp end of that long bloody plank of wood he keeps hidden for when the fights break out.

Paul spits in the sink and then gives his face a wash, well used to the freezing cold water after almost two months of it now. Besides, this morning it's a distraction from the thought of John underneath that blanket...

"You're showing the crack of your arse to the patrons of the finest flea-pit in Hamburg."

Paul wipes the water out of his stinging eyes at the sound of John's voice and watches as he comes to the sink next to him, washing his hands.

"Enjoy your birthday present?" Paul asks, pulling up the back of his trousers and attempting to wipe his face on his towel before John unhelpfully pulls it out of his hands to dry his own.

"Yes thank you, very satisfying."

He throws the towel over Paul's head and Paul is momentarily blinded until he drags it back off. When he does, he sees that John is now at the urinals. "Twenty today, eh?" He says casually, leaning back against the wall to dry off the razor he was using before cleaning his teeth. "Almost an old pensioner."

"Don't fuckin' remind me," John yawns, finishing up and coming nearer, raking his hand through his hair until any sense of shape or style is gone and it's flopping down onto his forehead. He still looks half asleep, Paul notes, but freshly flushed too. Paul doesn't want to think about what caused _that._ "Twenty and what have I got to show for it, eh? An orphan, living at the back of a crap cinema, the vision of an 85 year old and dropped out of college to work for a Kraut midget that I strongly suspect likes to take it up the arse. Joy beyond joy."

As he yawns again and rubs at his eyes, Paul tries to work out the most important part of that long list; he suspects it's the 'orphan' bit. He always thinks about Mary on his birthday - _always,_ because somehow it's more obvious that day than any other that he doesn't have a mother. Somehow on that day it seems more important than it ever did. John's probably thinking about Julia.

"But we're at the Kaiserkeller - that's a step up in the world."

"Aye, getting paid less than Rory and his monkeys, though."

Paul sighs. They often get into this game - John lists the bad things, Paul contrasts with the good. It never ends up going anywhere.

"Your mates bought you porn."

"Christ, aye." This gets John smiling and Paul feels pleased with himself. "Did you see it? Bloody hell..."

"Can't say I did."

"You can have a lend."

Paul is busy trying to ignore the guilty feeling that settles in his stomach at the thought he'd probably get off more on the thought of John looking at it than the actual porn itself when he realises John is helping himself to his washbag.

"You're using my fucking toothbrush?"

John speaks through a mouth of toothpaste, "Not the first time, won't be the last."

"You dirty bastard!"

"Hey!" John says, offended, "I offered to lend you my porn!"

"That's hardly the same as - "

The film showing in the screen next door must have just finished because their conversation is interrupted by an influx of men, three heading to the urinals and a further one slipping into the cubicles. Paul gives up the argument and folds his arms, waiting reluctantly for John to finish up. After his teeth he splashes about in the sink washing his face, swilling the water up on the rough patches of skin where he hasn't shaved since yesterday and Paul watches the individual strands of his hair that are hanging down get wet, water droplets gathering at the ends when he stands up.

Paul gives the towel over, stands aside for one of the cinema goers to wash their hands and watches John. He pays attention to the little things, like the watch he never takes off his arm because his uncle George gave it to him and the length of his fingers, how graceful his hands are. Paul wishes he wasn't so fascinated by the smallest things about John, especially not by the curve of his neck when he bows his head to wipe his face.

"Feel like a circus freak having to get a wash in front of the Third bloody Reich," John complains, swiping the towel a final time over his face. The final Herr leaves the bathroom and Paul contemplates John's scowl. Their eyes meet and neither of them look away.

"You _look_ like a circus freak," he says, and feels his arm whipped with the towel in return.

"You want to go to Harald's?" John asks, referring to their latest haunt, the cafe at the end of Grosse Freiheit where they'd serve up something resembling an English breakfast at any time of the day, even the strange hours they kept after being on stage until three. 

"Yeah, alright."

John whips him with the towel again but Paul doesn't move. He doesn't want to think he's enjoying it, but maybe he is. Just the two of them, hiding in the bathroom. 

And John's still not looking at anything but him, and Paul feels like his whole body is tensing, alive and aware of every tiny movement, in a good way.

"McCartney," John says, though it sounds more thoughtful than questioning.

"What?" He replies after a moment, and Paul keeps expecting John to look away, but he doesn't. He's squinting at him, staring, _watching_ him, and with this level of inspection Paul would usually move the situation on, but he doesn't want to. He realises somewhere in his brain that he's hoping something will happen.

Still John just goes on looking at him, and Paul prays no one comes through that door and breaks this spell.

"What?" he says again, prompting him. His voice sounds quiet.

John narrows his eyes a bit more at him, then finally speaks. "Something's different with you."

Paul feels his throat go dry, no idea what to say. "Like what?"

There's another moment of pregnant silence and then, "Don't know, why don't tell me?" And John's tone sound very odd, almost... almost _pleading,_ though that thought flashes away in Paul's mind as quickly as is came because it makes no sense. 

Then when several heartbeats pass and Paul still hasn't answered him, it's like John snaps out of it slightly, drops his gaze momentarily to Paul's arm and whips him there again with the towel before looking back up to his eyes. 

He looks thoughtful again.

Not breaking eye contact, Paul reaches out for the towel, tugs it out of John's fingers and mirrors him, though Paul's whip aims slightly lower, just above the waistband of John's messy, slept-in jeans.

Then like someone has turned a light switch on, John grins. 

But before Paul has a chance to smile back at him, the door to the bathroom has opened and another steady stream of weary film watchers are entering, making their way to the urinals and cubicles. Paul glances at them feeling slightly embarrassed, but John has already snatched up his washbag and is making his way towards the door. "Harald's, then?"

"Yeah," Paul says when they're finally outside in the corridor, "But what about the others?"

"Sod them," John replies, "Come on."

 

 

 

"Right, so this is me," John says, holding his knife up and sort of sauntering it along the table. "And this is her." Then he picks up his fork and sort of _sashays_ it towards his knife. Paul doesn't bother to hold back a laugh. "What?" John asks, confused.

"Moves like that, does she?" Paul asks, and does an impression of a sort of drunk penguin. John just rolls his eyes at him.

"So she's here, anyway, and she sort of comes over to me, moving like a cat."

Paul doubts this, but nods along anyway. "Right."

"And she stops in front of me, looking a bit star-struck - "

"Seen you at that freak's circus, has she?"

John kicks him under the table. It's hard enough to hurt and Paul has to lean down to rub it as he goes on. "And she says, 'Haven't I seen you playing at the Kaiserkeller?'"

He frowns. "We've only been there a couple of nights, how has she - "

"Look, am I telling this story or are you?" John asks, and his voice has a serious trace of sounding pissed off about it, so Paul decides to shut up. "Right, so I say, 'Probably, we're the resident band down there,' and she says," John applies a high pitch voice for the next line, "'Well I've always wanted to go to bed with a rock star'." 

Paul tries not to laugh and wonders just how much of this is fabrication. "Bloody hell," he says, trying to sound impressed. It's slightly too sarcastic though, and John squints at him over his cold cup of tea.

"Think she thought I was Elvis," he finishes, sitting back in his seat, obviously proud of himself. "So that was _my_ night; had another quiet one in with Pete, did you?"

Paul catches the smirk, briefly wants to flick John the Vs but thinks twice about it. "Me throat was a bit sore after all that 'mach schau'-ing."

"Aye, my bird's throat was a bit sore at the end of the night, an' all."

It's stupid and pathetic because it's just a childish piece of bragging that's obviously untrue, but Paul still manages to feel a surge of jealousy. It's an odd emotion to get about John, and he's still getting used to it, painfully putting up with it every time it happens to him.

The miserable-looking frau who works waiting the tables breaks Paul's thoughts, appearing beside them with a large plate in each hand, piled high. The entire place stinks of grease at the best of times, but as she breezes in from the kitchen it seems to get worse, curling up Paul's nose like the smell of sick, sharp and acidic - the food's alright in here, as long as you don't mind the stink and the look of the waitress.

She doesn't say a word to them, just dumps the food. "Danke," Paul says clearly, and John frowns at him for it.

"So, birthday breakfast - you paying for it then, are you?"

"Sod off," Paul replies around a mouthful of toast. "You were the one that suggested it."

"Just thought you might like to treat me, y'know," John shrugs.

"You're not a fucking bird," he hears himself say, and it sounds sharp and defensive. He gets a familiar flash of _hating_ this situation, these stupid gnawing feelings that seem to have settled themselves inside his bloodstream. "Anyway," Paul goes on, forcing his voice to sound more normal, "Aren't you going to open that?"

He points with his fork to the box on the side of the table that they had picked up from the postman as they were leaving the cinema. He'd been about to shove it all into the ticket sales booth the way he normally did of a morning when John had held his hand out for it and given the poor old guy such a mean look he didn't dare say no. The resulting mail that John had no use for (bills for Koschmider, statements for the Bambi) had been dumped in a bin on the way down here.

"It'll just be from Cynthia," John replies, shoving a piece of sausage into his mouth after a scrawny bit of bacon. "Letters and stuff."

"She'll have got you something, won't she? For your birthday, like?"

"Probably, God knows what though. I asked her to send us the proper lyrics to 'Roll Over Beethoven' 'cause I couldn't find them anywhere." John nods at the parcel. 

"Open it if you want."

As uncomfortable as he feels opening John's private mail from his girlfriend, Paul isn't quite sure how to express that he finds that strange, so he has no choice but to go for the box. John takes another large gulp of cold tea to wash his food down with and goes on attacking the toast like a man who hasn't been fed in months.

Cynthia has parceled everything up neatly and Paul gets a strong waft of her perfume as he lifts the lid of the main box, putting the wrapping aside on the seat next to them. Her little marks are all over it, a heart drawn in her familiar hand and a little sketch of herself holding a sign that says, 'Happy Birthday, Love' next to it. Paul has never really given much thought to what goes on in John and Cynthia's relationship, but now it seems to take on a new meaning - he feels an odd kind of jealousy of her, mixed in with a desire to know how they are with each other, whether John is soft with her or not. He must be, Paul supposes, or else she wouldn't put up with him.

"Think these are for you," he says, averting his eyes slightly at the little raft of pictures of Cynthia wearing just a black camisole, silk accentuating her curves. He passes them to John, who drops his knife onto his plate with a clatter, so eager to get a look at them.

"There's something to be said for home, then," John comments a few moments later, his voice sounding distracted as he flicks slowly through the photos. Paul keeps picking things carefully out of the box. 

"Reckon this is your pressie."

John hands the photos back to Paul (his dirty fingers leaving traces of egg on the corners, greasy and pale yellow) and holds his hand out for the smaller box, wrapped in pristine colourful paper. There is a big reveal moment as John tears the layers off and opens the box marked 'Hessey's of Liverpool' to reveal a shining new mouth organ.

"Bloody hell," he grins, getting it out, clearly over the moon. "The girl did good."

Paul has to agree the girl did _very_ good; it looks expensive.

John gives it quick blow, raises it to his lips and plays a few notes to check the pitch before starting up a tune, some slow, aching blues number that Paul wants to close his eyes and listen to.

"Nein! Nein!" Harald - the owner of the cafe - starts shouting from behind the counter. He is huge and fat, a grubby apron strapped around his waist with a handkerchief stuffed in the front pocket to wipe the sweat that frequently appears on his brow. Now he is waving his hands, trying to get John to stop, disturbing the peace of the cafe.

"Ah, fuck off!" John shouts. "Heil bloody Hitler." But the fact that he's stopped is good enough for Harold, who goes back to taking orders and serving drinks. John tuts, looks back down at the mouth organ and smiles. "Better give 'er a ring later, say thank you."

"Yeah," Paul says, taking the little gob-iron from John when it's offered to him. "Better bloody had." He runs his fingers over the shining metal, gleaming even in the shitty, bust lighting of the cafe around them.

"Did she send the lyrics?" John asks, resuming what's left of his breakfast, and Paul carefully puts the mouth organ back in it's box before looking for the lyrics, written out neat in Cynthia's handwriting. There's also some a page of guitar chords attached, and John takes them with rapt interest as Paul spots something else in the box.

It's a letter, just an ordinary reply to the back-and-forth letters they all send home, probably, and Paul knows it's rude to read other people's mail but he can't help wanting to know what it says. His letters to Dot are all boring stuff, asking about how family are doing, checking up on the Everton scores, getting the tittle tattle from the hairdressers where Dot works a few days a week. Paul assumes John's letters to Cyn must be the same.

Trying not to be too obvious, he flips the letter over, eyes scanning the words for snatches of conversation. "Mum says she saw Harrie shopping in town," "Ballard has set us a still life project for the end of term," "Everyone is talking about Stuart deferring a year," "Julia and Jackie miss you." Then Paul's eyes reach the bottom, just before the scrawled 'P.T.O.' and reads the words, "I wish you were here. Sometimes I lie in bed at night and - "

He shoves the letter aside. Paul feels like his cheeks must be burning in embarrassment, but when he glances in the mirror on the opposite wall above the little counter with the till on, he sees he looks perfectly normal.

"Any chocolate?"

"What?"

"She usually sends chocolate," John says, leaning over his now finished breakfast plate and rifling through the rest of the box. When he finally takes his hand out he's clutching three bars of Cadburys and grinning. "Better than this foreign shit. We're stuck here with crappy chocolate and crappy beer while she's back home with all the luxuries. Lucky old Cynthia, eh?"

And Paul can't help but agree.

 

 

 

Their set finishes at half past two; Rory and Johnny Guitar and Ringo have all already gone on somewhere else for drinks or back to the Seaman's Mission, so it's just the five of them left, and Paul is sensing that Pete is going to pull out pretty soon.

"I'm bloody knackered," he says, and wipes his hands across his eyes like he's physically trying to push the sleep away. Paul knows what's going to happen - Pete's going to say he's going back to the Bambi to go to sleep and John's going to kick off, complaining it's his birthday night out and they should all be celebrating, because he's had his fair share of beer and he's already started being rude with everyone in sight. Once already tonight Horst has had to step in, spit a warning in some rapid, abrasive German to a sailor that John had just called a, "dick-loving little queer," in order to save John from the beating of his life. Not for the first time, Paul had wondered where the hell they would all be without the ferocious little Horst Fascher watching their backs.

"Right, that's me done lads," Pete says, and Paul feels some part of himself brace, waiting for the reply.

"What?" John asks, eye narrowing from across the table where he had been slurring something to Stu. "You're fucking off?"

"It's past 3am, John; we've been breaking the stage in all night."

"You fucking lightweight," John says, and immediately looks to George. "Fucking little lightweight, isn't he George?"

"Lightweight," George nods, taking another gulp of beer.

"That's bad, Peter," John announces, "If even the baby of the group is calling you a fag."

"Eh!" George shouts, "Don't call me the baby!"

"I'm just tired, John," Pete sighs. "It's bloody late."

"You're a fuckin' arse, you mean - never joining in with anything, acting like you're lookin' down on us all the time - what is your problem anyway, Pete?"

"Just leave him go, eh John?" Stuart asks quietly, but Paul could have told him that was the wrong thing to say, and sure enough - 

"What, you an' all? You stickin' up for him then, are you?"

"I'm not - "

"Piss off with 'im then, Stuart, you're a miserable twat at the best of times."

"John, there's no need for - "

"Right," Paul says, standing up and draining the last dregs of his pint glass as though this _isn't_ the middle of an argument. "I'm going on somewhere else; anyone coming?"

George stands up, moves around the table to stand beside him as though eager to get away from the argument, and then they both look at John.

He is clearly considering his options, between making more of a row with Pete and Stu or just getting out of this dive, and eventually he takes the sensible option, which makes a change for John. "It's shit in here anyway," he says as he moves away from the table, and Paul almost rolls his eyes .

"Night Pete," Paul says diplomatically. "You coming, Stu?" He'd rather he didn't, but he can't exactly ignore him.

Stu decides to come, never one to hold a grudge, and they go out into the street, nodding goodbye to Pete as he goes left and they head right. After being stuck in the Kaiserkeller all night, jumping around like maniacs and screaming themselves hoarse into microphones, it feels good to be out in the cool air, whipping up underneath their jackets and t-shirts and cooling the sweat on Paul's skin.

At night the Reeperbahn is like Blackpool at the height of the season, all coloured lights and flashing neon signs. Paul can feel the yellows and the reds flaring off the black of his leather jacket and he listens as Stu and George suddenly laugh at something John has said that he didn't catch. It's still lively out, probably will be until about 5am when everything finally starts to die down, all the patrons crawl back into their holes, back into the routine of their mundane, ordinary lives until darkness falls again. 

"Where're we going, then?" George asks. Even though he still looks impossibly boyish amongst the well-built sailors and stuffy fat businessmen in suits, sweating from the fact they shouldn't be here, still no one calls him out. He's defying the curfew, but this is the last place anyone would care.

"What about that place with the poker table?" Stuart asks. "They have girls dancing on the bar in there."

"Aye, or _Sacha's_ \- they've got those little side rooms for dances and... stuff," George grins.

Paul finds himself glancing across at John just as unconsciously as the others; it's not just because it's his birthday and he gets to call the shots, but because he does it most of the time anyway, decides where they should go. There are a couple of clubs they're mildly safer in than others, places Horst knows the bouncers so they're afforded a little bit more protection from John's unpredictable mouth, but Paul doubts John takes that into consideration anyway, especially not when he's this pissed - bold enough to say exactly what he likes, too drunk to care about the consequences. Besides, they've all been lucky so far, standing around in the middle of numerous famous Grosse Freiheit pile-ins without getting a hair on their head touched, so they've become complacent about the violence, about how far it could stretch to them.

"Na," John eventually says, taking a careful drag of his ciggie and looking around the now-familiar buildings lining the street either side of them, short squat bouncers outside each one, trying to attract the right kind of gullible looking client inside. He's distracted by something, Paul can tell. "I'm bored of all this shit, same crap every night, same tits and arse. Fancy something new."

So they keep meandering, getting further and further from the main squalid section of the street they know and heading almost against the general flow of the Hamburg traffic. George starts telling Stu a story about the blonde barmaid from The Star-Club, about what she'll do for fifty Deutsche Mark, and Paul listens only vaguely, not really concentrating on George's words but rather the rise and fall of his voice, the sort of lull of it. It must be because he's got to that stage of being drunk where everything is pleasant and relaxing, Paul thinks, because he no longer feels that buzzing high of being on stage, but it's not the crippling low of when the prellies finally start to wear off and you can feel your head pounding either.

Tonight on their break they had discovered that the stage at the Kaiser was basically planks of wood laid down over empty beer crates, thus a new challenge was laid down, "First one to break it completely in half gets a night off," Rory had waged, and of course John had shook on it. Paul remembers looking across to Ringo and shaking his head mildly, though within about twenty minutes he had been giving it as good as John and jumping around twice as hard, trying to angle the corner of his heel just right to try and wedge a splinter in the boards. They had no luck, and Rory and the others no more after them during their set, but Paul has a feeling this one is going to run and run and run.

"Here?" Paul is torn out of his thoughts by George's confused tone and he looks up, bemused instantly by the topple-down look of the building infront of them. It's only when he looks back that he realises they've come down a side street, and the atmosphere here is quite different.

"You can get a quiet drink," John says, and it takes Paul a moment to register that he sounds cagey.

"Is this where Horst brought you?" He asks, before running the words through in his head, but as soon as John turns around and makes eye contact with him, Paul knows what the answer is going to be, anyway.

"Yeah, he knows the bouncer."

"Christ, it's not that queer place, is it?" George asks, and Paul feels an uncomfortable prickle of something run across the back of his neck. John answers faster than is decent.

"No, it fucking well is not."

"Alright, alright," George shrugs, lighting up a ciggie. "We going in, then?"

"Na," John spits, "Changed my mind. Come on."

He starts marching back the way they've just come and Stu glances across the cobbles at Paul, looking confused. "We just walked all the way up here, John. If you wanna go in then - "

 _"I_ don't wanna go in there," John growls, stopping suddenly where he is and causing a few quiet looking patrons at the back of him to almost fall over their feet. He glares at them like they're in for a belting and then turns back to Stu. "Christ, can't you think for yourselves for a change? Why's it always got to be me who decides where we go?"

"I wasn't - "

"Following me round like a fucking puppy dog, Stuart. I'm lumped with a bunch of fucking _kids."_

He's disappeared off around the corner before Paul realises what's happened, and he exchanges a look with the other two before glancing back to the club. Outside, two men are chatting, standing just a little bit too close together.

"I'd better go after him," Paul says, nodding back down the street, and George shrugs. 

"Why's he acting weird?"

"He's pissed," Stuart replies. "And it's John. No excuse needed."

"See you back at the Bambi, lads," Paul calls, leaving them both there hovering in the side street. He knows he should probably stay - neither of them are the toughest looking guys in the world - but he's hyper-aware of how far away John probably already is, and God knows what he'll get up to in such a foul mood. He tells himself he's scurrying through the streets because they need a rhythm guitarist with both of his arms still intact, not for any other reason.

The Reeperbahn's busiest hour is petering off so thankfully the streets aren't as busy as they could be and Paul hears his own footsteps pounding loudly on the cobbles as he makes his way back up Grosse Freiheit, eyes scanning every figure for that familiar wide set of shoulders, that distinctive walk, the leather jacket that is so like his own. He knows why John got so defensive about that club, Horst had told him in his bastardised form of English how John had been so fascinated with the place, having a little laugh behind John's back, but Paul hadn't really believed him. Not until John had taken them all there tonight and Paul had realised what he'd meant about wanting something a bit different.

"You'd make a shit detective."

Paul jumps at the sound of such a familiar voice amongst all the German gabble around him and turns to find John leaning up against the wall of an alleyway he's just walked by.

"George and Stu have gone home, thought I'd catch you up."

John just nods. He's got his arms folded across his chest and he's scuffing at the pavement with the toe of one boot. Paul gets a strong wave of desire to be closer to him, stand with their heads together, arms touching. He always wants to touch him, but it's worse when it washes over him like this.

"You wanna get a drink? Still a bit early, isn't it?" It's not what Paul thinks, but he knows it's what John wants to hear and he really doesn't want to get left behind like George and Stu

"Aye, alright."

Paul leads the way this time, back up the street the way they've both come. He knows where he's going, hopes John doesn't call him on it before they get there.

And he doesn't; they walk in silence back through the harsh neon streets, turn silently at the same time back down towards the club and Paul feels a wave of relief that Stu and George have actually gone because he'd have no way of explaining to them why they'd come back if they were still here. The couple who were standing outside before have gone too and the street is deserted as they get to the little doorway, inconspicuous other than for the sign above, not colourful like the others but something complex in German that Paul can't translate.

The bouncer is inside the door, sat reclining on a chair with a drink in his hand and Paul guesses from this that they must get less trouble here than they do at other places. And that they don't feel the need to drag people in off the streets. Either way, the fierce looking guy with his head shaved doesn't look at them, just takes another slug of his beer.

Paul doesn't know what to expect as he descends the stairs, is aware of John's hand on the banister behind him following him down and feels a brief urge to turn around and run as he reaches the long material screen covering the entrance way as they reach the basement. He realises his hand is shaking slightly as he reaches up to pull it aside, crossing the threshold and stepping inside, the familiar shape of John appearing next to him from the corner of his eye.

At first the place looks just like any other club on the Reeperbahn, people milling around the bar area, music pounding somewhere in the background, low lighting around a stage area where someone is dancing. But looking again Paul realises what he'd already known before he got in here; all the figures in colourful, tight or skimpy dresses, dancing or waiting tables or flirting at the bar - they're all _men._


	5. Five

"Um, zwei bier?" 

The woman - man, Paul corrects himself - behind the bar nods, giving him the slightest of smiles. Paul ducks his head a little to get a look at John, who is right beside him but clearly also miles away, looking around the club.

"Not sure on this tune, are you?" Paul asks, focussing on the one thing that isn't controversial, the one thing that he and John always have in common more than anything to fall back on - music.

"Ah, I dunno," John replies, finally meeting his eyes. "The speakers from the record player are shite, makes it sound tinny."

"Yeah," Paul feels himself nod, probably too enthusiastically, "Yeah, you're right."

The woman - man in a dress - returns with their two pints, and it looks like decent beer at least as Paul hands over a pile of coins, not bothering to count them. His hands are sweating too much to slip over the change, he'd rather just pay too much. "You want to get a table?" He asks, and John nods, grabbing his pint.

The stage area is set out much the same as the Kaiserkeller but because this place is technically a basement, it's cast in horrible shadow by the alcoves above it. The two spotlights that point up to illuminate the area are harsh, and Paul is glad when John chooses a seat far away from them - he doesn't want John to be able to see his face too well, though when he questions that, he finds he's not sure why.

A Little Richard number comes on, blaring out of the ancient old speakers, and Paul is glad to have something familiar to tap out onto the tabletop with his fingers when they finally sit, trying to act as though he's utterly cool with this place.

"This is better than that watered down shit Koschmider serves at the Kaiser," John says, indicating his pint glass, and Paul is glad that he too is trying to pick neutral topics.

"Yeah, much better; that other stuff tastes like dishwater."

They nod at each other for a moment, then suddenly there doesn't seem like anything else to say and John looks away. Paul glances up onto the stage - the bloke there in the dress is (unlike some of the others) actually a really good pass for a woman, girlish features and hair that looks natural rather than the more favoured coarse, hard wig. And his legs are clean and shaven, completely hairless and his nails have been done, painted some neutral, quiet colour like cream.

As soon as the dancer catches his eye, however, Paul looks away instantly, back out into the crowd. The other men around him are talking and drinking, or ogling at the stage, eyes fixated on the show.

One glance at John tells him that his eyes are fixated too.

Paul isn't sure what he thinks about all this - doesn't hate it but... he knows he's not turned on. He knows he doesn't think it's normal, natural, and he doesn't think any amount of brainwashing with it would ever make him _like_ it. The thing he's already found about the Reeperbahn is that quicker than you think it will desensitize you; things he used to think weird or strange have now become acceptable, women dominating men, men spanking women, women tying other women up. Two months ago he would have been shocked by it, now it doesn't even make him bat an eyelid.

But this? He doesn't think he'd ever find this anything less than utterly strange.

"That's the guy Horst knows," John says, and Paul follows his nod over the crowd to a bulky, tall figure with a nose bent so out of shape it looks like a egg has been cracked and left to fry on his face. 

"From the boxing?" Paul asks, just for something to say, and John nods, swallows his gulp of beer.

"Looks like it, with his ears. He looks like they've been drawn on by a blind midget."

Paul laughs loudly over the noise of the music and as he does so he realises John keeps shooting sly looks up to the bar, though trying not to draw attention. Once he's sure exactly where John is looking, Paul takes a quick look himself.

It's a man - the most obvious man in the place - in a dress that looks like it's come straight out of one of those loud Hollywood musicals. It's doused liberally in bright purple sequins that keep picking up and reflecting the light, and it's so short Paul doesn't need any imagination about what's underneath.

The most shocking thing, however, are the arms that protrude from the capped sleeves of the dress; pale at first, at the top, then coated in thick, black hair from just above the elbows, dancing right down over the back of the hands. He doesn't know much about this transvestite thing, but Paul knows that that isn't even trying - he's so obvious, beefy and butch and like he spends the rest of his time hauling the wheel of a ship.

And it's him, more than any of the others, who is distracting John. Paul has _no_ idea what this means. John likes his women feminine, Paul knows that for sure - he doesn't just _pretend_ to get hard just looking at Bardot, he really does.

So what the allure is here, Paul doesn't know. But with John it could just be fascination. With John it could be _anything._

"You gonna go over and speak to him, then?" Paul asks.

The instant fear and shock that crosses John's features would be comical, if this were even a _vaguely_ less serious situation, and Paul quickly tidies up after himself, making it clear. "Horst's friend, I mean - that bouncer."

"Oh, no," John shakes his head. "Don't really know him, doesn't speak a word of English."

"Right," Paul replies, wishing there was more to say. He never feels like filling the silent gaps with John, so it's not that, but just more that he wants to _ask_ about this, though he never would.

"You want another?" John asks in a rush. He gestures with his empty pint glass, then Paul has to quickly down the last quarter of his so that he can nod. 

"Yeah, sounds good."

John disappears up to the bar, and Paul watches him go. He watches him weave between the people in the small crowd and realises that he's looking at his behind, at the way the leather stretches tightly over his backside and feels shocked with himself then looks away. He hadn't realised he was doing it until he was halfway through - that'll be the beer. Maybe he shouldn't have any more. Maybe they should both just get back to the squalid little Bambi and remember that all this isn't normal.

Paul tries to focus on the dancer again, gyrating a little bit now to some slower music that has come on, something less rocky, something Paul doesn't know too well. 

He's so busy looking that when a slim man passes in his line of sight, Paul almost doesn't notice him, but the slim man tries to catch his eye.

"Hallo," he says, in a voice even softer than a girl's, and Paul gives the smallest polite smile he has. 

"Alright," he nods, then tries not to back away too sharply when the man leans in a little, one hand coyly on the table.

"Um, you tell me - I cannot find... toilets? There is some here?"

He seems embarrassed by his faltering English, so Paul takes pity on him. "Ah, I dunno, mate - maybe over there?" He points towards a door in the corner that has a long, heavy curtain drawn over it. "Sorry, I haven't been here before."

The man carefully follows the line of Paul's hand, nodding quickly at the door then giving him one more grateful smile. "Ja, danke, thank you."

Paul is breathing a sharp sigh of relief at the man's retreating back when he catches sight of John from the corner of his eye, still up by the bar. He's standing upright, looking uncomfortable and his back is painfully straight as though he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but - and it's unmistakable even from this distance - he's inclining his head slightly, to listen to what the man beside him is saying. And the man beside him is the 'woman' in the Hollywood purple sequined dress.

Paul feels an unmistakable desire to go over there and break it up - instantly his mind presents him with things he could say; 'I feel sick, gotta get out of here,' 'Remembered I told Koschmider we'd meet him at The Star Club,' 'Think we'd better follow Stu and George, check they're not getting their heads kicked in'. But of course all of those things are utterly stupid and Paul knows he would never really interrupt them, so instead he just sits there and watches, wonders what the hell John and that bloke could be saying to each other. He gets a stab of something burning in his throat as he looks on and suddenly realises what it is.

Jealousy.

He really, really hopes John doesn't disappear with him; quite apart from the fact Paul wouldn't want to be left in this place on his own, it would seem like such a waste. Because if John's going to do something with a man, it should be with Paul. He could handle the fact that John would never do anything queer, but he's not sure if he could handle the fact that John just wouldn't do anything _with him._

It's like his muscles are itching for him to just stand up, go over there, remind John that, 'Hey, _I'm_ here.' But instead Paul just watches in mild horror as John nods at something the man is saying, leans slightly closer still and says something into his ear. John still looks awkward, a slight sneer of disgust on his face, but it's clear the conversation isn't tense; they're not _arguing,_ which Paul would actually bloody prefer at this stage.

Then all of a sudden the drinks are laid on the bar and John is handing over some coins and turning to come back to the table, all without saying goodbye to his new 'friend'. Paul is so busy watching that he doesn't realise it must look like he's staring and he doesn't have time to look away.

"I'm not goin' to run away with your pint, if that's what you're thinkin'," John says, sitting back down beside him, and Paul feels himself flush. 

"Ah, no; was just wonderin' what was takin' you so long."

John just shrugs, acts like this is all natural, something they do every Friday night. "Think that fucker behind the bar was brewing it."

And it's _so_ difficult not to ask what John and that man were talking about, but Paul bites his tongue, bounces his knee under the table, just about manages it.

"You think we should ask Koschmider about him paying Rory more than he pays us, then?" John asks, and Paul realises it's weird talking to him when he's still giving off so much defensiveness, but at least it's a conversation, even if it is one they've already had before.

"Reckon it'd be about as much use as talkin' to a wall," he replies, glad of Koschmider as a joint hate-figure. "What d'you reckon?"

John shrugs again. "Reckon he'd listen if we threatened not to play. Rory was saying - "

Paul almost jumps out of his skin when he feels a tapping on his shoulder. He gets a very brief glimpse of something unnamable crossing John's features looking at a figure behind him before he turns around himself. 

The man he sees there is the slim man from earlier, the one who said Hallo, and it's only now that Paul notices the string of pearls he's wearing, looking like a sick version of someone's grandmother. "Excuse," the man says, his voice clearly shaking and nervous. "You want - we go outside?"

Paul feels a horrified laugh bubbling up in his chest but he manages to stop it in time. "No, no - nein, nein, nein." Then he realises how rude that must sound and tacks a, "Danke," on the end of it very quietly, feeling stupid. 

As the man slinks away back into the crowd, Paul turns back to look at John. He's sitting there stony faced, his teeth gritted; any onlooker would say he'd been dragged in here against his will rather than chosen the place specifically. Paul has no idea what to say, he feels stupid starting up the conversation about Koschmider again. But before he has a chance, John speaks for him anyway.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he says, looking like he's just swallowed a cup full of cold sick. He slings back the remainder of his pint in one go then stands up, clearly impatient.

Unsure of what it is exactly that's just happened, Paul takes a final gulp of his beer too, unable to down that much in one go and slides the hall full glass across the table. John is on the move already and Paul has to push through the growing crowd near the stage so that he can get to him, following the image of the light glinting off his leather jacket as the layer of smoke rising from the patrons by the bar obscures his view. He finds he can't wait to get outside in the clear night air and as soon as they get to the top of the stairs leading out, he takes a couple of gulping, grateful lungfuls.

"This place is a fucking shithole," John says to no one, for no apparent reason as they start making their way back down the side-street, the winking, colourful lights of Grosse Freiheit in the distance.

"Home though, i'nit?" Paul asks. "For now, like."

John just grumbles, rummaging in his pocket for his ciggies and Paul can tell he's in a full-on mood about something now, but he doesn't know what. He can't work him out, especially not when more than a little slightly drunk himself.

They don't speak as they walk almost the entire length of Grosse Freiheit, heading back to the Bambi, the thought of the dirty old mattress on the floor starting to look like a luxury to Paul, who can feel his limbs aching. If he was at home getting in at this time he'd probably have a wank and crawl into his comforting, familiar bed, but no such luxuries here.

They're at the back of the squalid cinema quicker than Paul realises, and his lazy hands start fishing in his pocket for the door keys Koschmider entrusted him with - only him, the others all have to knock up someone inside if they want to get in, or sleep outside on the street if they can't rouse anyone. It wouldn't be the first time if they did; they've pretty much all spent a few hours on these cobbles by now.

Keys located, Paul attempts to force them in the lock, overly aware of John waiting behind him, the smell of that club still all over them both, John crushing out his fag on the floor and blowing the last of his smoke into the cool Hamburg early morning.

"Think these are broken," Paul says, squinting at his bundle of keys in the pitch blackness. His brain feels sluggish and slurred all of a sudden, too busy thinking about the shape of John's body so close behind him, can't quite seem to locate the right key for the lock; either that or someone has moved the lock altogether.

"Come 'ere," he hears John say, sounding unusually patient, and then a familiar arm extends along his, fingers groping carelessly for the keys, not making any effort at all to grab them quickly first time. John's skin is suddenly so all over his, fingers lacing together briefly as he attempts to untangle the keys. And there is an unmistakable jolt of feeling very low in Paul's belly as he feels John crowd in close behind him, trying to reach for the lock in the dark - a mixture of boldness from the alcohol and a hormone driven feeling of arousal causes Paul to press back quite firmly, quite _obviously,_ and he almost makes an audible noise as he feels John steady him with a hand on his left hip, a ghost of John's breath on the back of his neck. "You're fucking useless when you're pissed," John mutters, and his voice sounds low and odd to Paul's ears.

And all of a sudden he's just desperate for this not to be over yet, not for them to just walk through that door and then be stuck with the other three again. So instinctively, Paul knock's John's arm away from the lock before he has a chance to accomplish his task and move away. "I'm fucking useless all the time."

He hears a soft intake of breath that could be John laughing quietly, then a knee presses against the back of Paul's knee, making his legs feel weak. "You've got your uses," John replies, and now Paul can feel breath on the _side_ of his neck and it makes him want to tilt his head, expose more of his skin to the feeling.

His brain registers that his tone when he speaks is on the wrong side of teasing, but the alcohol has done something disastrous with his common sense. "Yeah? Like what?"

There is the most brief and tiny of breath-held pauses, and then the knee at the back of Paul's thigh has jerked forward, knocking him off balance. It happens in a confused second, but the next thing Paul knows the very small gap between him and the door has gone and he's now leaning against the rough wood, hands out on the wet wall where it's been raining and John is pressed right up against him, body fitting his perfectly, aligned seamlessly in the dirty alleyway. Paul pushes instinctively back, more sloppy than he'd like but there isn't time for precision, and then he feels rather than hears John growl, hips shifting just a little, just enough that it could still be an accident.

But it isn't an accident to Paul, who grinds back against him purposefully and for a second they are in the briefest of scuffles, John clearly egging him on whilst Paul feels something hard against the base of his spine, but he's not sure if it's John or just the buckle of his belt. It gives him a thrill anyway, and he attempts to turn around so that he's facing John until -

"You're fucking falling over like a drunk," John accuses, stepping away and glaring at him as he tugs his jacket straight, but Paul knows that wasn't what happened at all. John looks like's he just _daring_ him to say anything to the contrary, and Paul can see how fierce he looks about it, how vaguely afraid.

So he acquiesces. "Too much shit German beer."

"You never could hold your drink," John mutters, which is ironic seen as it's him that tends to go mental the easiest; Paul can usually hold his manner and temper for far longer when drunk. "Shift aside, you're on the lock."

Paul notes that John doesn't want to touch him long enough to push him out of the way, keeps a nice respectable distance and his heart sinks slightly as he moves. Somehow after the heat of the scuffle he now finds himself shivering in the damp, aware of a twitching sense of shame about what just happened. But it _wasn't_ all just him, his still slurring brain tells him; he didn't imagine that push back from John, that growl in his throat.

They go to bed separately, John facing the wall so that all Paul can see is the back of his head, confusing and defiant.

 

 

 

 

Paul is woken by the sound of George's guitar, picking out the same three chords over and over again, chords that Tony Sheridan mentioned to them all thus chords that George has been perfecting ever since; the jump from one fret to another, trying to make it seamless.

"Give that a fucking rest, will you?" Paul asks, grasping at his own head, almost unable to believe the extent of the pain, like a crash victim waking from a coma.

"Don't be grumpy with me," George says, his familiar nasal tone sounding thicker against Paul's sensitive ears. "Just because you didn't pick up any birds last night."

The reminder of the previous evening causes a dangerous swoop in Paul's stomach as he thinks of the figures of those men in dresses - men with _breasts_ \- and he fears for a second that he's going to throw up. But eventually he manages to calm it, breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, focusing on the rough wool of his blanket against his skin.

"We might have copped off for all you know," he replies, and listens to the twang of George's guitar again.

"Aye, but I know you didn't, see - John said this morning before he went."

Paul pushes the blanket down over his shoulders quicker than he can breathe, painful eyes opening against the squalor of their little back room. "Went where?" He asks.

Head still bowed over the neck of his guitar, George just shrugs. "Dunno, he disappeared with Stu."

And he's right, Paul sees, because John's bed is empty, a crumpled mess of blankets and his clothes from last night, dropped like their owner was in a hurry. Stu's bed is empty too, and there's no sign of Pete. Paul feels a vague wave of horror, though he has no idea why because nothing happened - they went to possibly the strangest club in town and then John helped him with the keys in the lock after. Nothing happened, nothing was said. So nothing to be worried about.

And yet he still is.

"Did he say anything?" Paul asks.

George looks up at him and frowns at this. "Have you lost your memory? I just said, he told us you didn't - "

"Yeah, I don't mean that, I mean..."

But what does he mean? Paul realises he doesn't even have any idea himself. He wants to know if John's guessed, from that scuffle in the alleyway outside, but it's only because he's guilty about it. It's only because he _wanted_ something to have happened. And the feeling of embarrassment at himself for that tastes like the memory of last night's beer in his mouth.

"Oh nothing," he says, burying himself back under the blankets. "Forget it."

George's seamless chord changing continues until he hits a bum note and instantly sighs in frustration - he could play flawlessly for two hours, but it would be the one mistake he made at the end that he'd remember. He's a perfectionist.

"So what's wrong with you, then?" He asks, clearly having abandoned his guitar in favour of picking at Paul. "Sore head?"

"Sore everything," Paul mutters. 

There is a moment of stillness and then - the covers are whipped back from his head and when Paul opens his eyes, George is right there grinning at him, looking for all the world like Mike on a Saturday morning when Paul is trying to get a lie in. 

"Bugger off," Paul says, but already he can feel the edges of misery melting away from him, dispersing like a rain cloud.

"Wanker," George grins.

"Tit."

"Arsehole."

"Dick."

"Cunt."

"Pussy."

"...Dog."

Paul feels a laugh escape his mouth. "Dog? What sort of insult is that?"

But George just laughs too. "Yeah well, you said pussy, so I thought..."

"I was talking about a cat? That's innocent that is, isn't it?"

Paul knows he's the only one who can mention George's innocence and get away with it - if John tried it he'd immediately have a fight on his hands. As it is, George just grins that slightly lop-sided grin at him and tugs the blankets roughly back over Paul's head.

"Prefer you like that, anyway," George says. "Can't see your ugly mug."

"You can still feel me though," Paul replies, and George says,

"What?" Sounding confused before Paul kicks him from under the blankets and he finally gets it.

He declares Paul needs breakfast to cure his hangover, so they go down to the Seaman's Mission where - if you don't leave it too late in the day - you can get some decent food for cheap, probably better than Harald's but it's twice the walk so they don't go so often. When they get down there, Rory and his lot are already at the tables, faces grey and tired from last night, eyes hang-dog and dour as they each wince under their hangovers.

"Don't shut that door so loud," Johnny Guitar says, as their bassist bolts outside to bring up the couple of fried eggs on toast he's just had.

They're a sorry looking bunch, and Paul feels like he fits right in as he and George join their table, crowd into the little booth and order their food before George abandons him for Ringo anyway, getting lost in talking about something, heads close together. Paul doesn't mind so much, in fact actually he's glad of the quiet for a little bit, out and about so he's not sulking inside but not quite having to be sociable. He's not feeling very good at that at the moment.

It worries him that John disappeared out with Stu this morning; Paul knows it could mean anything technically, but he suspects that actually it's something to do with last night. He isn't sure whether John is just embarrassed that they spent so long at that club, or whether it's to do with the scuffle afterwards - frankly with John it could be either. Just because he was drunk enough last night to admit he wanted to go and sit amongst the transvestites for a few hours, doesn't mean the thought will sit well with him in the light of day. This could just be John hiding from the fact Paul knew he wanted to be there, or worse still it be that he's hiding from Paul _himself._

And of course it stings slightly that it was _Stu_ John disappeared with, the way it always hurts mildly when Paul realises he's on the outside of their little gang of two. He knows that John will do that sort of thing just to hurt you, take up with someone else and flaunt it in your face, like a visual way of saying, 'I don't need you, just in case you thought I did', but it never stops hurting Paul, no matter how many times he does it. That's his weakness, his sensitivity, and John makes it his job to know those things about people, so that he can use it like a flick-knife later, just when you thought you were safe. 

So it's hard to sit there eating and to try to enjoy the food when all Paul can think about is where John and Stu have gone, what they're doing with their day. It's like a childish spark inside himself, but Paul feels a flicker of worry at what John might be saying about him, whether they're laughing at him somehow behind his back. But there's nothing to laugh at, because no one knows the stupid things Paul has been thinking lately. He consoles himself with this.

After breakfast Rory tells them about a run-down old place that plays English films in the daytime, old ones like Westerns and Elvis flicks, so Paul follows George down there willingly, keen to waste a few hours, think about something else for a change. And the break in constant thought about John does him good, because by the time they walk through the doors of the Kaiserkeller at quarter past seven - ready to start their set - he's actually laughing. Properly. About nothing. Which hasn't happened for a little while, certainly not since this John thing.

"Thought you weren't going to show," Pete says, already installed behind his drums, tending to his hair in a mirror stuck to the side of the piano beside him.

"As if we'd do a thing like that," Paul replies, glad to see his guitar has already been brought down, getting it lovingly out of the case, a familiar feeling of home as he works quickly along the frets. "The others here?"

"Stu's just gone upstairs to get his glasses, John's at the bar getting his fix."

He glances across to see the familiar sight of John leaning over the bar, his jacket already off so that he's just in his t-shirt and jeans, the edge of the material riding up slightly to expose the pale skin at the base of his back. Paul feels a wave of sensation that he instantly tries to push back down, but he can't resist going over.

"You gonna share those with the rest of us?" He asks, tone jovial. He gets a flashback to the feeling of John's hand on his hip last night, steadying him, and his mouth starts to water.

But when John finally snatches the prellies from the brunette behind the bar, his mood is clearly far from good. "You're fucking pushing it, aren't you?"

"What d'you mean?"

"We're on in fifteen, you're supposed to be here in fucking time."

"Well I am, aren't I? It's not half seven yet. Hey, me and George found - "

But before he can finish, John has turned around and disappeared back into the slowly swelling crowd, features dark and thunderous to match his mood. There's a sinking feeling in his stomach but Paul follows him, shouts once to get his attention but John doesn't look back.

As he climbs up the back steps near Pete's drums, Paul sees John standing with his palm open to the others, each of them taking from the cluster of little white pills. By the time he gets there Paul can see that there are only four left, but ignoring him completely, John throws the lot of them into his own mouth, gulps them back with his beer.

"Oh, thanks," Paul says sarcastically, wondering why the hell John has to act so much like a child when he's pissed off. And trying to avoid the stinging feeling inside 

that always comes when John does or says something painful - tonight it's joined by the sense of dread that he's somehow paying for their uncomfortable closeness last night, and that makes it worse.

"What's it gonna be to start with, then?" Pete asks, sticks ready in hand. 

"What about 'Baby, Let's Play House'?" Stu suggests. Paul knows that's because it's the only one he's really any good at. He shoots him a brief bitter look before glancing back down at his own guitar - John's bad mood is rubbing off on him already.

"'Twist and Shout', get 'em in the mood early," George says, but Paul watches as John just shakes his head, one hand going to fix his hair. It's his nervous gesture, though why he'd be nervous, Paul's not sure.

"Na, my voice'll be fucked for the rest of the night then. What about 'Everybody's Tryin' To Be My Baby'?"

"Or 'Beethoven'," Paul offers. "We've got the words to that now."

"No," John replies, though he doesn't actually look at Paul when he says it, which only serves to make him angry as well as confused - this mood really does only seem to be aimed at him.

"Why not?"

"'Cause I said so."

Paul notices George glance surreptitiously at Stu, but he has no desire to really string it out into an argument, so he gives up, shrugs his shoulders.

"Right, so 'Everybody's Tryin' To Be My Baby' then - George, you alright with that?" John asks. Paul gets the feeling he's doing it just to show that his mood doesn't extend to George, even though George was as late as him. John's doing it to make a point that it's not about the lateness. Which means it has to be about last night. Paul feels something cold and thick like treacle wash through his body.

"Yeah," George replies, clearly surprised to be asked, even though he's doing most of the singing on this one.

"Hang on," Stu interrupts, pulling his guitar off his neck. "I need a piss before we start."

John just nods, flashes him a quick smile as he exits by the back stairs, and Paul feels a burst of anger in his chest at the sight of it. "So he can make us late to start the set, but I can't?"

He knows inside that it's reckless to push John when he's like this, but the sight of that quick little smile just for Stu has raised the sleeping green-eyed monster in his chest. He feels a burst of irrational anger as well as embarrassment in front of the others that it's clear John is treating him like shite but not everyone else. 

Cowardly, John just pretends he hasn't heard this and he goes on tuning up his guitar, even though it's completely in tune. It just seems to make Paul feel worse. "I _said,_ 'So he can make us late to start the set, but I can't?'"

This time John can't fail to hear him, because Paul has come around to face him, so close that even as someone as blind as John has to see. When he looks up, the stare he gives Paul is so cold that he momentarily almost steps backwards to get away from it. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's one rule for Stu and one rule for everyone else with you, isn't it?"

Maybe it hits a little too close to home, because the next thing Paul knows, John has stepped just that little bit closer to him and they're suddenly squaring up to each other. Just off to the side, Paul is aware of George hovering slightly nervously, saying something to Pete about getting Horst. 

"So what if it is?"

Even though it's a mixture of anger and residual embarrassment trilling through his system, Paul still feels a vague urge to press his mouth against John's. But maybe he'd bite his bottom lip this time, just a little too hard. 

It's a strange mixture of wanting to throttle someone at the same time as wanting to kiss them - he's never had it before, but it's quite a potent emotion, as Paul finds out when he spits back his answer at John. "He's always so fucking special with you, isn't he? What's going on between you two, eh?"

John's faces creases up in disgust, but Paul notices the high spots of colour on his cheeks too, showing his embarrassment. "We're not all filthy little perverts like you, Paul."

The moment is pierced by some drunken English sailor in the crowd starting, 'Fight!' but still Paul feels that comment scrape away at the lining of his stomach. John always knows how to land the best blow - _always._ Paul feels a stab of hatred at _himself_ for letting himself feel something for someone who can cut quite this well. A voice in his own head says 'I told you so'.

Not willing to let John see though, he continues as seemlessly as he can. "Me?" He hears himself laugh, then because he still can't bring himself to be as cruel as John, he lowers his voice carefully so that over the rumble of the crowd Pete and George won't be able to hear him. "It wasn't me who wanted that club last night."

Paul expects a punch, if he's honest, or at least some form of the unique blind rage John flies into when he's embarrassed or ashamed or feeling weak about something, so he's more than just momentarily stunned when instead he just gets anger, a simple flashing of the eyes, and John growls, "Yeah, but it wasn't me who was about to get off with that fella, was it?"

He's aware that he must pull some sort of cartoon puzzled expression, because John immediately sneers at him like he thinks Paul's surprise is fake. "I fucking saw you," he says. "When I was up at the bar, I saw you talking to him."

Paul is still trying to compute what John means by that when a quiet, familiar voice interupts them.

"Alright there, lads?"

It's Stu, standing almost in the middle of them with those stupid big black sunglasses on, his fine, delicate features pulled into a peace-making smile. "The night's too young to be man-handled by Horst, isn't it?"

Paul watches as the high points on John's cheeks dust red again, and he can only imagine it's with embarrassment at Stu catching them sniping at each other, originally over him. Either way he shoots Paul a look cold enough to cut and then steps back. "Yeah, let's just get on with the fucking set."

They all step away from each other quietly, Paul uncomfortably aware of George watching him with a questioning look on his face. He has the distinct desire to run off the stage, but if he ever wants to look John in the eye again then that's a very bad idea. And besides, he's got nowhere to go anyway - they're all trapped in these sweaty little clubs and rooms with each other, testing human limits of claustrophobia.

At Pete's call of, 'One two three, four!' they all break into 'Everybody's Tryin' To Be My Baby', and Paul watches George go to the mic, his brain hardly on the chords at all. They're at, _'Went out last night, I didn't stay late,'_ before he finally gets the courage to glance sideways to where John is standing, but the second that he does Paul sees John look away quickly, as though he's been caught out watching.

Paul isn't exactly sure what they were arguing about just now, but he does know one thing - John never chooses to hiss his insults at you in private, he usually likes the biggest audience possible when going for ritual humiliation. So if that accusation of getting off with a fella had been done to embarrass him, Paul knows it would have been done in the loudest voice possible, instead of the quietest one.

And if it had been anger at Paul trying to start something in that alleyway last night that John had felt, then he knows that in such a mood John would have just said so, loud and clear. But it _wasn't_ that he was angry about - it was the guy with the pearl necklace, the guy who had asked Paul to go outside. And John had seen Paul pointing him the way to the bathroom, so he thought they'd been talking, that Paul was arranging to go with him.

 _That's_ what he'd been angry about. And to Paul that didn't look much look like anger, that looked like jealousy.


End file.
